


The Forward Place

by DaytonBay



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-01-06 23:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 105,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12221181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaytonBay/pseuds/DaytonBay
Summary: Sansa crouches low in the icy woods, having escaped Ramsay only to slowly freeze as the hounds draw close. Robb appears and offers a rescue,  by delivering her to Jon. But to save his sister he has hurtled her out of her own time, and Sansa seems to be the only one aware that nothing about this world is as it should be.





	1. Brothers

With the light long since hidden to the west, Sansa crouched and shuddered against a tumbledown boulder, easily twice her size, as heartless and unyielding as her husband. The cold had seeped all the way into her bones by now, right down into the last spark of her thoughts. For the moment, she could not hear the hounds.  
  
She could only hear her disjointed, frozen thoughts.  
  
She thought of Theon, first. Theon, who had taken the arrow meant for her. Theon, who had murdered her brothers. Theon, bleeding to his death, who tilted her over the high wall of Winterfell when her courage faltered. Theon, who pushed her into her escape.  
  
Imagine that, Lady Sansa, she berated herself. Escaping your own home. Home that was. And here she hid in her own country, homeless, wolfless, orphaned. Sold. Hunted. That’s most critical right now: hunted.  
  
Or perhaps, more critical still, her clothes dripped of river water. Of the barely melted snow that formed the river she had crossed to escape the hounds.  
  
Search deeper, she told herself. You have no need of a wolf for you are a wolf yourself. This cold will kill you as surely as the hounds. Only Ramsay won’t let the hounds kill me. He will have far worse in store for me, the bride who escaped to spend her wedding night huddled against a rock and waiting for death.  
  
She stood and shook and ran on. Up a hillside covered in thick undergrowth and trees that blocked what little light still remained in the cloudless sky. She headed north and into the woods above the valley floor. North is Jon and Jon is salvation, she repeated and repeated and repeated. Step and push and climb and stumble. North to Jon. North to Jon.  
And then she tripped for true.  
…  
Sansa awoke at a lower elevation than she’d left consciousness at. Her foot was wedged firm beneath a fallen tree, twisted and painful and bloodied. She dug methodically until she released it, and she tried to cradle it against her wet chest, lying back to the snowy earth and face to the stars. She made out the North Star clearly. North. Jon.  
  
She crawled. The hounds approached now, still very distant, but she knew there would be no escape this time. Theon had not prevented her rape, but he had shoved her to her freedom later that night. He knew that even worse, months and years of rape and torture, had been coming. And now Theon was dead.  
  
She crawled on, searching for a high place, for a cliff over the wide river valley below. She had no knife, no poisoned brew. If she was going to kill herself, she needed height. Further on, at a slow pace, and finally she saw a halo of light on the dark horizon. Not Wintertown, for she had run the opposite direction. A camp then, and she could make out banners, the far off sounds of men clumping about. Bolton men? Possible but unlikely – Dreadfort lay to the northwest and this was northeast. Whoever they were, a camp meant large numbers of men and almost certainly…  
  
She heard the dulled, snowy thump of hooves at the same moment that she had the thought: patrols.  
  
Call for help or hide? Sansa knew these horses did not belong to Ramsay’s hunting party. He ran with the hounds, and the hounds were distant still. Anyone else had to be a better. Part of still longed for a mercifully high cliff and rocks at the bottom, but she lifted her upper body from the frozen ground, ready to call out.  
  
“Sansa, wait.”  
  
Sansa waited, and indeed stopped breathing altogether. The voice had come from very close by, and it sounded corporeal and strong. Worse, she recognized that voice. Worse, she could make out his shape now, beneath the tree directly in front of her.  
  
“Sansa, you cannot go to the camp like this.”  
  
“Robb?” Her brother gazed steadily at her, unblinking eyes pleading with her. He looked older than she remembered, more tired. His dark hair hung in curls over his pale forehead, his clear blue eyes ringed with black. She must look dead herself, she thought, in a torn, dove-coloured wedding gown, lips blue with cold and hair tangled and wet.  
  
“They won’t work like this.” Robb seemed to turn to someone else, someone she could not make out. “It’s hopeless sending her to him. Mayhaps he will keep her safe, but that is not enough.”  
  
“Robb!” Sansa let out a sob, and crawled forward to him with the last of her energy, but he melted away as she reached for him. A shadow touched her arm, caressed her face. It felt warmer than she did, and that almost made her laugh. Death felt warmer than she did. “Robb, please. I am freezing. I am hunted. I am dying.”  
  
He turned back to her, his soft eyes rapt on hers. “I know, Sansa, my dear sister. You are so close to me now. Much too close.” She collapsed in the snow next to his form, reached out to touch his black cloak, but it, too, dissipated as she reached for it. “Do not fear for your life, Sansa. You will live. But, Sansa, I want everything for you. You deserve everything, after all you have been through.”  
  
Sansa shook her head. “Robb, what of deserve? You deserved to live. You deserved to hold your baby…” She buried her face in her freezing hands, gone numb and white with the cold. “I am hallucinating, seeing my big brother in the shadows.”  
  
Robb didn’t move much. She would have thought her vision of him would hold her, hug her, comfort her, but this Robb offered none of that. Instead he nodded towards the camp: “Jon is there.”  
  
“Jon?” Her North Star. Jon was close by. Sansa felt a small bloom of hope, the first in a very long while. She had run and run after Theon had pushed her, but it was almost the muscle memory of a will to live, a ghost of the real thing. It hadn’t on any level been hope.  
  
Robb leaned forward, almost-but-not-quite close enough to touch. His curls stayed in place, though the wind was blowing her own twisted hair in every direction. “Everything is going to look different, Sansa. Jon will look different. But you must remember this: Everything is the same, really. Deep down. Don’t be fooled by what you can see on the surface. Underneath, nothing has changed. None of the dangers have changed.”  
  
Sansa just blinked. “Robb, please just tell me what I should do. Do I call out for the patrol?” She had stopped shivering now, and any child of the North knew that to be a very bad sign indeed. She wouldn’t need a cliff; she would soon be with Robb. And then he could hold her, right? “Is Mother with you?” she whispered, then even more quiet and hopeful: “Is Father?”  
  
“Sansa, you can’t come to us now. You need to live. And you will remember my warning. Appearances are only that. Who people are, what they say and they do to you and for you… that will be completely real. It will carry over…” This was the King in the North’s voice, strong and commanding, no longer a plea.  
  
The horses varied their stride. She heard them coming closer rather than passing.  
  
“Go on, Sansa. Call out. Tell them to take you to Jon. Sound like the Queen you are when you tell them.”  
  
She heard the riders hit the ground with a crunch in the deep snow as they dismounted. Two, maybe three, if perhaps a pair of them had landed simultaneously. She looked Robb in the eyes and called out, as strong as she could manage. He nodded to her: a king’s acknowledgement, restrained and regal. She had never seen Robb as king. He looked beautiful.  
  
The footsteps sped now, stomping heavy in the drifts, winding efficiently through the trees to her. The nerve-wracking scrape of swords being unsheathed carried across the snow. She began to shrink back instinctively, but Robb shook his head. “Queen,” he quietly repeated.  
  
So Sansa sat up bolt straight, unable to stand on her leg. She called again, this time more controlled, “Over here! I require assistance,” she shouted, as though she had merely lost a sewing needle, as though she were not about to succumb to the snow and the ice.  
  
Three hardened men appeared before her, faces dark and dangerous, wrapped in deep wools and weapons in their hands of a make she did not recognise, short like daggers but blunt. There was no sign of the swords she had heard just a moment before. The men wore helmets the like of which she had never seen: shallow and grey and wobbly-wide, and they did not bear the mark of any house. They circled her, almost ignoring her, looking into the woods above and behind, disappearing in to the trees and searching for her non-existent companions. One man, at last, kneeled in the snow beside her.  
  
“Hey girl,” he began cautiously, not meaning a syllable of it. He distrusted her, but her wet dress was thick and finely woven, with jewelled buttons on the bodice. She wore fine, white furs about her shoulders. “You hurt?”  
  
“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” she began, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She meant to continue, but that phrase had begun enough to elicit a shocked expression from the soldier before her.  
  
He cut her off: “Stark? You’ve come from Winterfell?”  
  
She inclined her head and put every scrap of energy into annunciating clearly. “I have escaped Winterfell,” she corrected. “I would be taken to my brother, Lord Commander Snow.”  
  
The other two men returned to stand either side of her, casting critical looks over her. She looked for Robb, but could no longer see him.  
  
“General Snow?” the man to her right asked, incredulous. “You’re his sister?”  
  
“I am,” she kept her answers short, but now nearly let loose a sob. She was so cold, her leg throbbed, her entire body ached. She added weakly, “Please, I want my brother.”  
  
This seemed to do the trick. The man kneeling next to her sheathed his weapon. He wrapped his arms beneath her legs and back and lifted her as though she were nothing. “Start the jeep,” he barked to his companions. She noted vaguely that his heavy cloak buttoned down the front and had sleeves that encased his arms. Odd, she thought.  
  
Not nearly as odd as what she saw next. The other two soldiers were climbing into a metal carriage unlike any she had seen. It roared loudly to some sort of mechanical life. Sansa screamed and huddled into the arms of the soldier carrying her.  
  
“Easy, gal. We won’t hurt Jon’s sister, we promise, okay?”  
  
One of the soldiers in the front shouted, “Major, can you hunker down in the back with ‘er? She must be freezing. There’s blankets back there.”  
  
Edd settled Sansa into the carriage. He piled some old, worn blankets atop her. They did nothing to warm her. Edd himself, though, was warm as toast, and Sansa wished he hadn’t moved so far away. He seemed to want to touch the General’s sister as little as possible, and Sansa could only sympathise with that.  
  
The carriage moved loudly under its own power, and faster than a horse at a full gallop once they’d cleared the trees and were moving down the hill towards the lights of the encampment. Sansa tried to shrink from the wind inside the cold, metal carriage.  
  
The contraption pulled to a harsh halt in front of a sprawling encampment of dirty white tents that blended into the dirty, white snow of the vast river valley. She had been this far north of Winterfell before, on horseback with her father and brothers and Arya. She pushed the image from her mind. Now the landscape was carved up by this army of men, wide mud and rock tracks crossed the land where there ‘Jeeps’ were scurrying to and fro. Men, strangely dressed as Edd, swarmed the open courtyard where they’d stopped. All were armed and some wore the same rounded, metal helms that just covered their ears. No one carried a sword, however.  
  
She had not fallen asleep, nor lost consciousness. Her head remained clear, if a bit dull from the overwhelming cold. This whole strange world appeared quite real. Edd’s hands were warm as they rearranged her on the seat to free himself.  
  
Edd’s feet hit the ground first. The men around him stopped and raised their hands to their heads in a snapping motion.  
  
“You,” he pointed to a young, gangly man in one of the pointless helms. “Find General Snow.”  
  
As the boy scurried off, Edd wheeled round and addressed another man. “Private, find Tarly and tell him to bring his kit bag. This woman is injured. Then inform the Field Marshall.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” The soldier started off at a run, but skidded to a sudden halt. “Major Tollett, what shall I tell the Field Marshall?”  
  
Edd had turned his attention back to Sansa and replied shortly: “Tell him we’ve found General Snow’s sister, and that she has come from inside Winterfell.”  
  
Edd and the driver of the jeep then lifted Sansa carefully from the backseat, bringing her to stand between them. She leaned heavily on Edd, barely able to support her own weight. She felt dizzy and numb and frozen all at once. But then, she spotted a mop of curly black hair across the compound. Sansa gasped, all of her attention on Jon.  
  
He pelted it across the compound, his boots kicking up dirty clods of snowy mud behind him. He well nigh ran straight into Sansa, clutching her as knocked her from her precarious stance, lifting her up into a hug that squeezed her breath from her chest. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him back. Jon – her solid, tough, shy brother – held her like he never intended to let her go.  
  
“General, let her go!” Edd was tugging at Jon’s strange coat. “She’s injured her leg badly and I suspect hypothermia.”  
  
Jon seemed to switch on to really noticing Sansa’s condition. “Her hair is soaked. God, Sansa, all of you is soaked. What’s happened?”  
  
Edd pushed them both towards a row of tents. “Never mind what’s happened. Tarly’s going to meet us in your quarters. Let’s get her inside.”  
  
Jon swept her up in his arms and carried her. He was shouting questions at Edd in increasing desperation, which Edd tried to ignore by answering with the fewest possible words.  
  
“Where did you find her?”  
  
“Woods.”  
  
“How did she get there, for fuck’s sake? God, sorry Sansa. But how did she get there?”  
  
“No idea.”  
  
Edd was starting a fire in a large tin container in the centre of what Sansa assumed to be Jon’s tent. She felt herself switching off now, shutting down and allowing Jon to take over. Robb, she whispered, I’ll be safe. He has me.  
  
Jon frowned at her, setting her down on the narrow bed in his tent, and kneeling next to her. He kept her frozen hands clutched in his large warm ones. “No, Sansa, it’s Jon. I’m Jon.” Sansa mustered as much of a smile as she could. “I know that, Jon.”  
  
A wide man huffing for breath piled into the tent, clutching a tent pole for support and holding his chest. He had the face of cuddly toy bear, kind and soft and open. He padded to Sansa’s side, took one look at her and began flapping and shouting: “Get a tub in here for her, now! That dress – all her clothes – need to come off immediately. How could you leave her in wet clothes, Jon?”  
  
“She just rolled in,” Jon shouted back. He let go of her hands and ordered some men milling outside the tent. “Off with you! A bath and plenty of hot water. And get a nurse in here – get Nurse Poole.”  
  
Edd backed off his fire, tossing more logs into the tin container to stoke it higher. Tarly was unlacing her boots and Jon was tugging at the laces on the back of her dress. “Edd, we’re getting Sansa out of these clothes, so get out,” Jon yelled, “Thanks for the fire. Send in the bathtub and the nurses soon as.”  
  
“You got it, Jon,” Edd smiled down at Sansa. “You hang in there, girl. I don’t make it a habit to rescue people, and I’d hate to think I was wasting my effort.”  
  
Jon had given up on the laces and slashed through them with a dagger by the time the tub and water arrived. The two men tugged off her dress, her corset, her stockings… and she was far too out of it to care. They had her down to her shift and wrapped in a blanket when the tub arrived, quickly filled with steaming water. Jon unwrapped her frozen body from the blanket and lifted her wet shift over her head, then gently set her down in the warm bath. She cried out – the water, though not hot, seemed to burn her icy feet and hands.  
  
“Sorry, Sansa,” Tarly kneeled next to the tub, Jon on the opposite side. “We need to keep you in here for a little while, until your body temperature comes back up to normal. I know it hurts. It will pass.”  
  
Jon stroked her hair as she whimpered in pain. “Sam, can’t we give her anything?”  
  
Sam, then, she thought, not Tarly? He scrambled up from his knees with some difficulty, and rummaged through a black bag on the floor. “I can give her a little something, but I don’t want her to lose consciousness right now.” He took out some pills and handed them to Jon, who helped her swallow them.  
  
She lay in the tub for what seemed like hours, dozing on and off. She was drifting away when she heard a happy female squeal. “Sansa!” Her friend, Jeyne Poole, she hadn’t seen her in years – she was dropping onto a stool next to the tub. It was Jeyne, certainly, but her clothing, her hair, her face… Her lips were bright red and she was wearing a wool skirt that ended at her knees and left the rest of her legs exposed in thick, black stockings. A fitted, belted bodice had buttons down the front. A short jacket was all that covered her top. Her hair was curled dramatically, brushed smooth, and tied back in a neat bun.  
  
Sansa’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Jane!” she gasped. Robb had mentioned that things would look different. She had noticed how strangely Sam and Jon were dressed, but their outfits appeared to be a variation on breeches and a tunic. She couldn’t quite figure out the fastenings.  
  
Jeyne and Jon helped her out of the tub, wrapping her first in scratchy linens until she was dry, then in warm, dry breeches and a short, soft, warm tunic. They piled her under blankets in Jon’s bed, which Sam and Jon had moved nearer the fire. Sam wrapped her feet and hands in gauze. Jon sat behind her to prop her up as Jane fed her sips of a warm, sweetened tea. It tasted pleasant and milky. Jon’s body heat soaked into her back through the thick, blue tunic as she lay against him, and she didn’t ever want him to move away again.  
  
Jeyne chattered at her, and Sansa caught none of it. She finally let herself quietly begin to cry. Here was her brother, and her best friend, warming her and protecting her. She was far from Ramsay, far from the hounds. They would never find her here, with a whole army surrounding her.  
  
“Oh! Sansa, don’t cry,” Jeyne leaned in to hug her. She produced a soft cloth and dabbed away Sansa’s tears as they fell. “You just sleep now.” Jeyne patted her hand and Jon stroked her hair, and she soon fell fast asleep, more peaceful and happy than she had been since she’d left Winterfell as a child.  
  
…  
When she felt herself coming back into a waking state, Sansa stayed quiet. She had learned not to trust who might be around her in sleep. She nearly broke into a grin when she recognised a voice whispering across the tent as Jon’s. Sam was whispering back, a bit more loudly. “Jon, did you see the scars on her back? Her body is littered with bruises and cuts, some fresh and some scarred over. What’s happened to her?”  
  
“I don’t know. She was in King’s Landing for so long, since before father was killed. I haven’t seen Sansa in years, since before the war started. She was just a little girl when I joined up and left for Castle Black.”  
  
“Well, she was dressed for a wedding when she arrived here. This dress is unbelievable – no one makes anything like this anymore. Where did she even come by this cloth, the jewels, during wartime? Everything’s rationed.”  
  
“She’s thin, too. Much too thin,” Jon worried.  
  
“So she’s been beaten and starved. And, Jon.” Sam hesitated, uncertain if he should finish the sentence. “Jon, um, when we undressed her and put her in the bath, I’m really sorry to say this. But there was blood. Um, between her legs. Blood and, um, Christ. I really, really don’t want to say this.”  
  
Jon didn’t make a noise that Sansa could make out. She wondered if they could see her cringing. She tried to keep her face a blank, but of course, this maester, Sam, had noticed the evidence of what Ramsay had done to her.  
  
“Just spill it, Sam, quick. Like ripping off a plaster.”  
  
“Blood and… semen. Jon, I think she’s been raped.”  
  
She could feel Jon slipping from his chair to the ground by the edge of the bed and taking her hand in his. She felt his soft kiss on the back of her hand, and another on her brow.  
  
“I’m going to get hold of Ramsay, Sam. I swear I will. I’m going to kill him.”  
  
Sansa was just considering announcing herself, beginning to explain, when a gust of cold air blew over her. She blinked open her eyes in time to see Jon and Sam jumping to their feet, standing ramrod straight and raising their hands to their heads as she’s seen the other soldiers do to Edd.  
  
“Field Marshal,” Jon acknowledged, his voice all business.  
  
“At ease,” a tall shadow passed in front her brother and the maester. The man shook the snow off his black coat, and the flakes melted before they could hit the ground in the heat of the tent. “So you confirm this woman is your sister, General Snow?”  
  
“Yes, Field Marshall. She has been sleeping…”  
  
The man stepped right up to Sansa’s bedside and stared her down. He had black hair and a dark expression, and eyes so dark she could not make out their colour. He stood far taller than Jon or Sam and seemed to be made entirely of muscle and sinew, thin and sparking off a nervous energy that sent Sansa scooting away from him. “She’s awake now. All the better, as we need some questions answered. How did she escape Winterfell? If it indeed it was an escape.”  
  
Jon bristled. “Field Marshall. What are you implying?”  
  
“I don’t imply, Snow. I’m saying plainly that my intelligence has it that this woman married Ramsay Bolton, a Nazi officer who is trying to take over the North alongside his Nazi father.” He turned his unflinching gaze back on Sansa. “So is she here spying for her husband? What say you, woman?”  
  
Sansa flinched and tried to sit up, but she moved too quickly and dizziness drove her back down. Jon dropped down beside her and smoothed a hand over her hair. “She is far too ill to answer these accusations…”  
  
“And the accusations are far too serious to leave until she has recuperated,” the commander spat back. “I need answers immediately. And if she is genuine, then intelligence from inside that godforsaken old castle. I intend to retake Winterfell, and she has critical information.”  
  
Sam shuffled forward, clearly frightened, and stammered to her defence, “Field Marshall, as a doctor, I implore you to give the young lady until tomorrow morning…”  
  
“And as your commander, I’m telling you to get the hell out of this tent, Captain,” the man barked back. Sam scuttled away without a further word. But the verbal assault brought Jon to his feet.  
  
“You will not march in here and upset my sister. She has run from her wedding – she arrived still wearing her wedding dress, so she was unlikely to have been a willing bride. Her body is littered in bruises and scars” – here Sansa knew that the bruises were largely Ramsay’s doing, but the scars were all Joffrey and his thugs – “she nearly froze to death running alone, at night, into the woods, and has only by some miracle been discovered by Edd on his patrol.”  
  
“I don’t believe in miracles, Snow. This girl knows something, and I will find out what.”  
  
“Fine then, find out tomorrow, when she has rested.” Jon stood his ground, staring back at his commanding officer.  
  
The two men were nose to nose now, and Sansa feared a fight. Instead, the man leaned down to her bedside. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Mrs Bolton. Tomorrow at dawn you will answer my questions about your husband.” He turned and marched out of the tent. Mrs?, Sansa thought in confusion.  
  
Jon snorted out a frustrated noise, and sank back down onto the stool at Sansa’s side. “Who was that?” she managed to murmur.  
  
“Sansa, go to sleep and don’t mind him. It’s Stannis Baratheon, the overall commanding officer of the army of Westeros. I know he comes across as quite… intense and … ”  
  
Jon carried with his description and his apologies, but Sansa stopped listening at the word ‘Stannis’. Well-educated in all the major and most of the minor houses of Westeros, Sansa knew precisely who Stannis was. She had waited in vain for him during Blackwater, when Tyrion had attacked with wildfire. Her father had died supporting Stannis’ claim to the Iron Throne. Stannis was the rightful King of the Andals and the First Men. The lord of Storm’s End and of Dragonstone. But in this strange world that Robb had landed her in, Stannis was the head of this vast army. And they were at war with the Boltons. The broad circumstances of life, then, had not changed.  
  
“… but I promise you he is a just man, an honourable man, and he will see the right of your situation.”  
  
“Jon, you don’t know my situation.”  
  
“I know you are not a spy, here to betray me. I know you didn’t want to marry the man who covered you in bruises and cuts. I know you escaped, and somehow you found me.” He sighed, and held her hand. “We’ve found each other again, Sansa. How long since you saw another Stark?”  
  
She didn’t need to think: “Since the day they executed father.”  
  
“Oh, Sansa. I’m so sorry. Did you witness that?” She nodded. He squeezed onto the edge of the bed and pulled her close. “But we’re together now, and I’m going to protect you, okay?”  
  
Sansa didn’t argue back, but she didn’t think anyone could protect her from Stannis Baratheon if he chose not to believe her.


	2. Husbands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update to say thank you for the wonderful response. This update courtesy of the long lead time to set up an account - I'm afraid future updates will take longer.
> 
> Warning for a discussion of past rape.

Sansa opened her eyes before the next sunrise feeling far better than she could have imagined. Her leg still hurt where it had been crushed beneath the tree, but her hands and feet felt perfectly normal. A quick glance towards a familiar snore confirmed Jon passed out on the floor of his own tent, a blanket above him and another below. Jon had snored since childhood; she used to tease him.  
  
Sam Tarly sat on the stool at her bedside with her wrist in his hand, and he seemed to be counting under his breath. She let loose a little laugh at the memory of she and Robb bashing awake a 10-year-old Jon to stop him snoring so loudly. It startled Sam, whose great bulk jumped a bit on the wooden stool beneath him, and it groaned in complaint as he landed. He shot her a shy smile, and laughed himself.  
  
“Hold still, like a good patient, and let the doctor count your pulse!” he admonished with a grin.  
  
Sansa puzzled out that ‘doctor’ must mean maester and ‘pulse’ must mean the heartbeats you could feel beneath your skin. She held still.  
  
“How’s your leg?” he asked, moving to lift the blankets from her. He unwrapped the bandages and nodded satisfactorily. “Looks to be healing nicely. No signs of infection.” Jeyne entered the tent then, bid them both a sunny good morning and eased her way over Jon’s waking form to help Sam. She sat on the stool with a towel and a basin of water in her lap, while Sam cleaned the open wound.  
  
Jon sat up drowsily and pushed a heavy mane of curls from his eyes. Sansa giggled again, despite herself: he looked so much like the young boy she remembered from the time before everything went so horribly wrong. Reminders of that happy past had been few and far between over the years, and none so uncomplicated and pleasant as Jon.  
  
Jon helped her to sit up in bed while Sam tended her leg. “That still looks bad,” he commented.  
  
Sam admitted that was true, and that Sansa would be on crutches for a week while she healed. “Jon, the sun’s up. Why don’t you grab Sansa some breakfast from the mess? You must be starving,” Sam directed the last comment to her. Sansa’s sunken, haunted eyes were testimony in themselves. Ramsay had kept her locked in her room for the last week before the wedding, fearing precisely this sort of escape attempt, feeding her only intermittently.  
  
Jon grabbed a towel and soap and washed up quickly in a basin in the corner of the tent. Then he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and promised to be back soon with breakfast.  
  
“Sansa, while Jon is gone… are there any other… ummm… injuries, that you need to tell me about? That aren’t visible immediately?”  
  
Jeyne grasped Sansa’s hand and explained very gently, “Sam means to ask… were you raped? Did Ramsay – or anyone else – force themselves on you? Sam’s a doctor, and I know you might not like to talk about such things in front of a man, but he would only mean to help you.”  
  
She thought about how to answer that question. She’s been nearly raped in King’s Landing, but the Hound had saved her. She’d been stripped and beaten, but never more than that while Sandor and Tyrion had a say. She’d been forcibly wed, but Tyrion had never touched her. Petyr had forced kisses, touches… inappropriate and unspeakable, but not physically harmful. But then Ramsay… he had gone further, his kisses hurt, he bit her, exposed her, touched her roughly. And finally, that last night… Her breath shuddered.  
  
“Ramsay did hurt me, yes,” she hesitated, smoothing her hands over the borrowed breeches she was wearing. She felt her breathing speed up as she considered how to explain to a man, even a maester as kindly as Sam Tarly.  
  
“Sansa,” he soothed, “You do not have to give us details if you do not want to. But I do need to know how often this happened, and when last.”  
  
“Only last night,” Sansa felt more tears crowding her lashes. She held onto Jeyne’s hand.  
  
Sam seemed serious. “In that case, I can give you some medicine that will make sure you don’t conceive a baby, if that is what you want.” Sansa nodded gratefully. She did not want to incubate Ramsay’s bastard, got on her by rape, not if she could help it.  
  
“Okay, then, I will go mix up the necessary herbs. It’s all very traditional, but it will work. I promise.” Sam looked so softly at her that she felt she could tell him anything.  
  
“It still hurts,” she whispered, so quietly she couldn’t be certain he had heard. But the stricken look he gave her suggested that he had.  
  
“I can give you something for that, too, and I’m going to have you bathe in some special salts, to clean any… internal abrasions. Okay?”  
  
A noise at the tent’s entrance – an audible exhalation - made all three of them look up as one.  
  
There stood Stannis Baratheon, still as tall and imposing as the night before, but now decidedly angry, though where it was directed, Sansa could not guess. “Capt Tarly, Nurse Poole, Mrs Bolton… I shall wait outside until Nurse Poole and Capt Tarly have completed their examination.” He nodded stiffly and stepped outside the tent.  
  
Jeyne squeezed her hand again and that brought Sansa’s attention away from the king. Sam patted her knee. “If you need to tell me anything, or Jeyne, you can. We can help you.” He smiled nervously at the tent flap. “Sansa, if you want me to send him away… it won’t be easy, but I can try.”  
  
Sansa felt a rush of gratitude to the big man. He had the kindest face, and she knew he was scared witless by the king. “No, Sam, I will be fine. Thanks to both of you, and to Jon and Edd, I have slept well and my leg is mending. Jeyne, could you just help me sit up a bit better?” Jeyne propped her more securely upright and even brushed out her hair and helped her to wash her face. Then she gave Sansa’s hand another squeeze.  
  
“He’s gruff, Sansa, so you must be strong,” she whispered. She and Sam sent her encouraging looks as they left the tent.  
  
King Stannis threw back the tent flap and marched in as they left. He pulled out the single chair by Jon’s desk and turned it to face her. He considered her from a height before sitting himself down. He seemed to take up all the oxygen in the tent, and all available space. Be a queen, Robb had told her. Sansa channeled every ounce of her mother’s spirit, and faced King Stannis with an inscrutably polite face. She had to hold herself back from beginning, “Your Grace,” but he spoke first.  
  
“Where is your brother?” he demanded.  
  
Sansa smiled benevolently. “Good morning, Field Marshal Baratheon.”  
  
He actually huffed at that. “Yes, good morning, Mrs Bolton, now...”  
  
“Stark. My name is Stark. And my brother has gone to fetch me something to eat.”  
  
“Stark? Surely Lannister, at least.” His drab green uniform made him look utterly forbidding, the breeches stiff and creased down the front, a dark jacket buttoned to the neck and belted in heavy leather, with one of those strange weapons strapped to his hip. His face was set into deep lines of disapproval. Sansa counted in her head. Stannis had been 12 years Robert’s junior, so he must be only about 30. Not old enough for the lines and the stony eyes.  
  
Sansa tried not to react to the taunt. She answered with all the grace she could muster: “The marriage to Tyrion Lannister was forced upon me when I was a captive in King’s Landing, and was subsequently annulled, as you must surely know.”  
  
Stannis shifted in his seat. “Miss… Stark, then,” he sounded unconvinced. “You seem to have married into not one but two of the most powerful Nazi families in Westeros. And now, here you are in my camp, on the eve of our attack on Winterfell.”  
  
Sansa felt herself at a loss. She did not know the details of this war, or the right names to use, or why King Stannis – no longer king – was fighting these Nazis. But she knew that whatever they were, they were clearly the enemy, and her father was not one of them. Never. She was just about to make this point when Jon reappeared.  
  
“Field Marshal,” he greeted, standing straight, unable to make that strange hand gesture with a tray of food and drink occupying both hands. He set the tray on a small table to the side of the bed, and settled himself on the edge of the bed, near Sansa’s feet, providing a physical barrier between herself and the king.  
  
“General Snow. I was just attempting to ascertain how your sister has married twice into Nazi households, yet expects me to believe she has no Nazi sympathies.”  
  
Jon stared daggers at his commander. “Stannis, have you lost your mind?” The king stiffened on his chair, though Sansa would not have thought that possible given how mechanically he was sitting before. Sansa sucked in a nervous breath; she feared for her brother’s treasonous tone. Surely the king could have his head for using such an informal mode of address? Stannis’ eyes narrowed at Jon’s presumption in using his first name. “Our Jewish father took Sansa and Arya with him to King’s Landing when he was chosen as deputy chancellor by your brother. When the Lannisters overthrew him, my sisters were trapped and our father was murdered. Sansa watched as our father was gunned down a firing squad directed by Joffrey Lannister.”  
  
Sansa blinked back tears. She would act like a queen; she would not cry like a little girl in front of yet another hateful man. And she would find out later what ‘gunned down’ meant. And ‘Jewish’. Also ‘Nazi’. She needed a parchment to keep track of all the terms.  
  
Stannis kept pushing: “Sansa’s mother was not Jewish, but Catholic. You have told me that Sansa followed her mother’s faith. Perhaps she was complicit in your father’s murder. Have you considered that possibility?”  
  
Jon leapt to his feet and advanced on Stannis so quickly that Sansa barely had time to call out. Stannis rose as well, prepared for Jon’s aggression. “Jon! Please sit down. Both of you, please sit and we can discuss this.”  
  
The two men squared off next to the fire. Sansa felt as though her heart would beat out of her chest. She’d come here and intruded on Jon’s life, and now he’d lose it to this angry, inflexible man who intended to take the Iron Throne.  
  
She reached out and tugged at Jon’s coat. “The field marshal’s questions sound harsh to us because we know that I would never betray our father. I loved him and it destroyed me… I can still see his blood on the stones.” She twisted her hands into the blankets until Jon sat back down next to her and took them both in his. She breathed in evenly and tried to separate herself from the story she was telling.  
  
“Miss Stark, I would have your explanation of events,” Stannis commanded, barely holding his temper.  
  
“Joffrey would not allow me to leave King’s Landing after father’s execution. He forced me to marry Tyrion because he thought it a fitting punishment for Robb’s military successes against Lannister – I mean, Nazi – allies. He wanted to keep me in King’s Landing as a sort of insurance policy, or just as a horrible sort of sport. For every battle Robb won, I would be beaten.”  
  
Stannis flinched at this. “Capt Tarly has reported to me about your scars,” he said evenly. “Did you sympathise with your Nazi husband, then?”  
  
Sansa felt a bit discomfited at the news that Sam had told Stannis about her back, but she ploughed on. “Tyrion is no Nazi.”  
  
Stannis scoffed. “He’s a Nazi, and you clearly are an apologist. He was responsible for our defeat at Blackwater.”  
  
“He stopped the beatings, curbed the worst of Joff’s excesses. He killed Tywin. He is not just a Lannister, and he is not evil.”  
  
Stannis stood again, his dark eyes filled with the memories of the lost battle, of the fire-bombing of his fleet and men. “I have heard enough. As you are Jon’s sister, when this latest battle is won, I will commute a sentence of death for treason and afford you the courtesy of returning you to your first husband rather than calling for a tribunal…”  
  
Sansa gasped and she could almost feel Stannis taking a hammer to that tiny bit of hope she’d nurtured ever since Robb’s ghost spoke her name in the woods. She let out a defeated sob. Whatever Robb’s plan had been, it clearly wasn’t working. She was to be branded a traitor, it seemed, by every side. She, who had always gone running to mother and father with the lies her siblings told by the dozen, would be sentenced for a liar. She, who had stoically kept her own counsel for years because she was constantly surrounded by enemies, was branded a spy.  
  
A few tears slipped down her face as she tried to calculate a plan. She could not go back, and she could not stay here. Perhaps she could escape again, and at the very least choose the manner of her death herself. There was the river… with some stones in her pockets, she reasoned, the cold would certainly render her unconscious. There would be no pain.  
  
If Sansa knew one thing, she knew kings, and there was rarely any changing their minds. She’d never met a good one, and Stannis was proving himself no different, whatever they were calling him in this strange world Robb had sent her to.  
  
Jon was on his feet again and had already begun to argue furiously in her defence. “You will send her nowhere. She is my sister and my responsibility. Neither of her marriages were lawful or true, and I will not allow you…”  
  
“Not allow me?” Stannis thundered. His deep voice seemed to shake the tent.  
  
Sansa pulled herself up as much as she could manage, and slipped her legs over the side of her bed. She raised her voice just enough to be heard despite their shouting, but kept her speech calm and even. Silence had suited best while she was trying to survive in King’s Landing and the Vale and Winterfell, but this king was unwilling to let her hide in the background. She spoke with the conviction of the condemned. “Who are you, Stannis Baratheon, to sit in judgement upon me? My father, brother and mother are dead in your family’s service, and my sister and two younger brothers lost. I paid in blood and pain for your defeat at Blackwater, as surely as your men. I waited for you. I waited for your army to defeat the Lannisters, to take King’s Landing and end my imprisonment. You failed. I suppose I am little more than a loose thread to you, needing to be tied up neatly. But I am no Nazi, and I will kill myself before I will be shipped back there.”  
  
Stannis said nothing. He looked down on her, hands clenched at his sides and jaw held tight, and she could not read his dark eyes. How could anyone imagine this man as anything less than a king, she wondered. He carries himself as such. But he wasn’t a king here. Whatever field marshal meant, it seemed less absolute. Her eyes flicked to Jon, who was panting with anger and barely suppressed violence.  
  
“Who I am, Miss Stark, is the commander of Westeros’ military forces, and if I lose a crucial battle for Winterfell due to an intelligence leak, the whole of the continent could fall to the Nazis. I cannot afford to have a Nazi sympathiser in my camp.”  
  
“She is not a Nazi sympathiser, for fuck’s sake!” Jon exploded. Stannis looked murderous. “Sir.”  
  
Sansa dropped her head. For a girl who had grown up with dreams of marrying a prince or a knight, she had nothing but tragic interactions with royalty. “Forgive me, Robb,” she murmured too low for the men to hear. Jon and Stannis had squared off again, and she largely ignored their raised voices as Jon tried to talk sense into the king. She stretched to reach the bottle of pills that Sam had left on bedside table. She wasn’t sure if they were the ones for pain or infection, but perhaps whatever they were, they would dull the shock of the river water if she took them all at once. She fiddled with her strange, borrowed clothing, finally locating a pocket to tuck the pills away.  
  
“Of course you are right, Field Marshal,” Sansa spoke softly, and both men closed their mouths to listen to her. “I am too great a risk. You will not believe me, I suppose, but I heard Ramsay mention that he had 4,000 troops, most stationed to the south-east of the castle. I haven’t seen for myself, of course, but I overheard him telling his father, and I don’t think he knew I was listening. The castle itself is heavily fortified, and could withstand a long siege given the grain stores.” She breathed in and out, and tried to think of any other details. “He is often at odds with his father. And he won’t want a straight fight: Ramsay is no ideologue – he won’t be a Nazi because he holds with the beliefs - and he likes mind games. He just wants power and fear.” Sansa shrugged helplessly. She had no idea what to add, but this information may help Jon. He could retake Winterfell, and she could look on from her place with Robb and mother and father, watch him kill her rapist and restore their home. She unthinkingly rubbed her hand along the bottle the outline of the pill bottle in her tunic.  
  
Moving in the silence after she stopped talking, Stannis sat in the chair by her bed that Jon had abandoned earlier. She still could not read his expression. He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, and seemed to consider her for an eternity. She held her breath and did not twitch a muscle. His left hand suddenly shot out, pinning both of hers in her lap. His right hand moved deliberately and carefully dug into her tunic pocket for Sam’s pill bottle. He gave the label a fleeting glance before passing the bottle to Jon, without removing his eyes from hers. A greenish hazel, she decided, from this distance. An unusual colour, a bit muddy.  
  
He let go of her hands and stood up again, to his full height, his dark hair nearly brushing the metal pole that tented the canvas roof into place. “Miss Stark, I believe I have been unnecessarily dismissive of your version of events. I … apologise… for my words, and there will of course be no further talk of sending you to King’s Landing. I shall see your marriage to Ramsay Bolton properly annulled; I can do that by executive order today. I just ask that there be no further talk of you inflicting injury to your person.” He stopped for a moment, seeming to reach into unused recesses of his brain for a word long forgotten. He found it: “Please.”  
  
Sansa only bobbed her head in acknowledgement, uncertain what to make of this abrupt turn.  
  
Jon had shifted from rage to shock at some point during the speech. When Stannis turned and marched back out of the tent, tall and proud, Jon sank onto the bed next to her and gathered her up in his arms. She tucked her legs beneath her, mindful of Sam’s bandaging, and rested her cheek on her brother’s chest. She cried and cried, soaking the front of his odd, buttoned shirt, until finally Jon was reminded of her forgotten breakfast and cleaned up her tears and coaxed her to eat. The tea had gone cold, but was still sweet and milky and strong and Sansa liked it very much.  
  
When the tears had stopped, Jon reassured her that she was safe from the Boltons and Lannisters, and that no one was turning her over to them, not for anything. Sam and Jeyne popped their heads back into the tent, then hovered by her with the medicines promised and the salts for her bath.  
  
“I have served alongside that man for months, Sansa, and believe me, he has never apologised to anyone, for anything, at any time. This is a red letter day for the entire Westerosi Army: Stannis Baratheon has learned the word ‘please’.” Jon grinned.  
  
…  
  
Stannis strode confidently from Snow’s tent, across the muddy, frozen compound and straight into his own. He dismissed Major Tollett, who had been clearing away the maps and plans that littered his rickety field desk after another sleepless night spent pouring over strategies. He hung his overcoat up on a wooden peg next to his helmet, fished deep into a pocket for a packet of Chesterfields that Davos had tucked into his hands two days ago – Stannis had just this once taken the cigarettes without asking too many questions about where they came from. He then sank down into his padded, leather desk chair – the single luxury he dragged around on campaign - dropped his hands to his knees and let out a breath he felt he’d been holding since he first saw the Stark girl yesterday.  
  
This morning, when she raised herself up to berate him, her ill-fitting shirt – no doubt one of Jon’s – had shifted. He could clearly make out bruises in the shape of handprints, and finger-shaped marks were littered about her throat and collarbones. She had pale, perfectly smooth skin, and those purple bruises stood out sharp and accusatory: this woman had been abused by Ramsay, that sadistic, fascist bastard. He had overheard her disclosing the rape to Tarly and that nurse. Her leg had been bleeding through the layers of bandage, and looked swollen and painful. Where her shirt had ridden up slightly along her torso, he could see the silvery lines of scar tissue above the waistband of her flannel pyjamas, and the clear outline of her hipbone. Her big eyes and prominent cheekbones spoke of malnourishment. He’d seen enough of it at Storm’s End to know the beginnings of starvation when he saw it. She had never made a move for or even cast a glance at breakfast.  
  
Yet she had stood up to him, when he had sentenced her to certain death by declaring her an enemy and a spy. She had spoken to him proudly, convinced of her own worth.  
  
She thought him a failure. He thought that quite often himself.  
  
Sansa Stark was cripplingly beautiful.  
  
In his desk drawer, he unearthed a book of matches emblazoned with a crude sketch of the Wall in white line, against a black background, a leftover from a bar in Mole’s Town that his men had dragged him to months ago, before their march south. Stannis lit up, breathed in. On the balance of probability, it seemed unlikely that Ned Stark’s little girl had grown up to be a Nazi sympathiser. Her scars and bruises and dramatic escape backed up her claims. Her demeanour, her honesty and her clear integrity backed up her claims. And he knew from his own scouts that Ramsay had roughly 4200 troops stationed to the southeast of Winterfell.  
  
He shouldn’t apologise for questioning her story; that was his duty. His duty to the men and women who served under him, to the country, to the success of a critical campaign.  
  
But he’d apologised anyway.  
  
He’d made her cry.  
  
She was staggeringly beautiful.  
  
The facts did not pile up in his favour. He huffed out his own disapproval at himself along with a lungful of restorative smoke. She was in a delicate state; she had just escaped a rapist and torturer. He should not be allowed anywhere near something so fragile and fine.  
  
Davos broke his thoughts by shuffling in with a characteristically cautious air, as if he suspected Stannis capable of anything, and he needed to be prepared for it. He deposited a stack of newspapers before the commander and switched on the BBC. Every news outlet doubted Stannis, and the public school tones of the presenter on the radio was currently questioning the failure to take Winterfell fast enough. The Nazis had been in control of the country since Robert’s death four years ago, and after the bloody defeat at Blackwater, many commentators openly questioned whether Stannis had it in him to take back the capital. He knew that opinion was turning against him. Stannis leaned over and switched off the radio.  
  
“What are you thinking, sir? Do we move on Winterfell? That’ll shut the gobs of those newsmen.”  
  
Stannis tensed up all over again. “As luck would have it, Jon Snow’s sister, freshly escaped from the Boltons, landed in camp last night. We need to find out what she knows of their defences. I questioned her this morning, and I don’t think she’s working with the Nazis. I think the intel we get from her will be genuine.”  
  
“To the best of her knowledge,” Davos responded.  
  
“I would like you and Jon to interrogate her, find out all she knows about the state of Winterfell’s defences, how Bolton is likely to think and react.”  
  
“Not going to question her yourself, sir?” Davos paused, considering his longtime commander’s taut face. He caught a fleeting hint of guilt somewhere around the eyes. “You did something to her, didn’t you?”  
  
Stannis snorted angrily. “I asked entirely reasonable questions. But they did make her cry.” He glared at Davos, daring him to find fault with his actions.  
  
Davos merely sighed. “You made Jon Snow’s kid sister, the pretty one he always says was a bit of a princess… that one… not the tough one he talks about gifting a handgun to… but the delicate one that was hostage to the Lannisters from the start of the war… you made her cry? Isn’t she injured? Hypothermia or something?” He shook his downturned head as Stannis glared on, unmoved. “You’ll be lucky if the general doesn’t try to kill you in your sleep.”  
  
“I could have you court marshalled for even suggesting that,” Stannis growled.  
  
“Go apologise,” Davos suggested.  
  
“I did apologise,” Stannis barked back.  
  
“Really?” That seemed to temporarily flummox his friend. “You said the words out loud?”  
  
Stannis rolled his eyes and refused to comment further. “She may not be willing to divulge information to me as freely as she will to yourself and Gen Snow.”  
  
“Field Marshal. You need to fix this, not just because you’ve run roughshod over a vulnerable and ill young lady, but because you need to mend fences with Jon Snow. And because it is strategically important for you to question her yourself.”  
  
Stannis threw up his hands. “I have already apologised!”  
  
“Then apologise again! Act contrite. Speak to her gently and ask your questions respectfully. Don’t huff or growl or grind your teeth if she doesn’t have the details you want.”  
  
Stannis was grinding his teeth at the moment. “Fine – set up a meeting with her at…”  
  
“… at her earliest convenience, Field Marshal. I shall stress the urgency of the matter. But I don’t think you should charge in demanding specific times.”  
  
Stannis nodded curtly and waved his hand to dismiss Davos from the tent. But Davos hadn’t quite said his fill, yet. “Stannis, how badly off is she? That fucker, Ramsay. Did he hurt her?”  
  
Stannis tapped a pen against a sheaf of papers, the topmost being the order of annulment he had just begun. He couldn’t really discuss what he had overheard, even with Davos. Sansa should be able to keep those secrets to herself, sharing only with those she trusted. “Yes, he hurt her,” he said sombrely.  
  
Davos seemed to understand his meaning anyway, because his voice shook slightly when he answered: “You don’t need to annul the marriage. You need to make her a widow.”


	3. Friends and Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for the lovely comments and the kudos. I love everyone's theories and contributions. Sorry not to have responded to all the comments but I promise to do so - it's been a helluva week, and I just wanted to get this chapter to you.

By the following day, Sansa managed to hobble to the front flap of Jon’s tent unaided, while he went off on a reconnaissance mission in advance of the battle. Everything moved at twice the speed she was used to – those strange carriages roared and weaved and sped around the enormous camp, churning up mud and leaving dirty, thick wheel tracks in the snow. Everyone was dressed in a uniform, and the only colours were an earthy green, a muddy brown and black. There were almost no women in the camp, even as camp-followers. The few that were around wore scandalously short skirts over winter-thick stockings and clunky boots. They added bright stain to their lips, just as Jeyne had.

The carriages came much bigger than the one she’d been in. The larger ‘lorries’ had material stretched over open beds at the back, and a covered area for the driver at the front. They crunched and belched and scared Sansa witless. Beyond the huddle of tents, she had seen monstrous carriages, like overgrow direwolves covered in armour, that ripped up the earth with destructive, rotating fury. Tanks, Jeyne told her, when she’d pretended she couldn’t quite make out the bestial machines on the horizon.

She could not ask all the questions that she had. She had a date - 1944, inscribed on a thin, black-and-white parchment on Jon’s tidy desk – but it meant next to nothing as did not know for certain when ‘0’ had been. She had been born 286 years after Aegon’s Conquest. Had there been an Aegon in this timeline? Was this a real time, or just a magic trick?

Jeyne arrived and cheered her from her confused thoughts, then helped her into another bath of salts and pushed another cup of mouldy-tasting, thick herbal tea down her. It would bring on her bleeding, Sam had told her. She swallowed pills against the pain and another type against infection. Jon kept the pill bottles now, and doled them out to Jeyne or Sam as needed. He did not directly confront her about the hidden bottle from yesterday, and she suspected he was not as certain as the king what she’d intended to do with them.

Sansa was due to meet with King Stannis again that morning, and she felt almost too ill to eat the toast Jon had brought for her, just thinking about it.

Then Jeyne pulled out a ‘treat’: a skirt and buttoned top, just like Jeyne herself wore. “No need to wear your brother’s cast-offs!” she laughed.

She helped Sansa into smallclothes that fit without laces or stays, a tiny corset the clipped together ingeniously at the back and thick tights against the winter cold. The skirt closed with a contraption called a zip, in which she caught and cut her little finger, and the shirt felt stiff and confining, nothing like the soft, rich dresses she was used to. The whole ensemble was a drab brown. Jeyne had even found her some black shoes that laced across the top of her feet. They felt sturdy and comfortable.

“I know it’s just uniform, and you’re a civilian, but the clothing is warm and practical for now.”

“Oh, Jeyne, thank you. It’s all perfect,” Sansa tried to smile confidently, as though this sort of clothing was perfectly normal to her. She felt half naked. She wondered if civilian women showed so much of their legs.

“And I can do up your hair, now, too! No one around here has such long hair anymore. I love yours,” Jeyne gushed. She pulled and brushed and styled Sansa’s hair until it was done in a sort of smooth wave of big curls and parted far to one side. She found a mirror and showed Sansa the effect. “Do you like it?” Sansa nodded. She didn’t look like herself, especially once Jeyne had tried the red lip stain on her.

“There,” Jeyne smiled proudly. “You’re ready to take on Field Marshal Grumpy. He’s made of ice, that one. Hasn’t looked sideways at a woman since his wife died last year, so you don’t need to worry,” she gave Sansa a reassuring hug. “I imagine that being surrounded by men after what you’ve been through…”

“But none of them are Ramsay,” Sansa said flatly.

“No, thank God,” she gave Sansa a warm hug. “Now let’s show you off. We have an hour before you meet with the field marshal.” Jeyne linked her arm around Sansa’s and helped her out of the tent. Sansa limped to rest her bad leg, and that jarred her battered body, but Sam’s medicines dulled the worst of the pain. Jeyne encouraged her friend to lean on her, then to try out the crutches Sam had found for her. Jeyne seemed to negotiate this place with practiced ease, while Sansa found herself cowering anytime one of those huge lorries rumbled past spewing muddy slush in its wake.

The mess tent was an enormous canvas construct, a similar dark green to everything else. Long wooden tables ran in 3 rows down its length, flanked by rough wooden benches. The tables were half-full of men at this slightly off hour, talking quietly and seriously in this shadow of an expected battle. Light came from small, rounded lanterns that hung from a black wire along the top beam of the tent, but there did not seem to be a fire in them. She held onto Jeyne’s hand as she looked about in what she hoped was surreptitious amazement. Jeyne made straight for a small group of women who were chatting together at the far left.

The three women huddled together over cups of tea, not really talking to each other, simply keeping each other’s company. Sansa recognized Brienne of Tarth immediately. She looked less intimidating in her brown skirt and tunic than she had in full armour, with a sword at her side. As Sansa made her slow approach, Brienne looked up and jumped from her seat in shock.

“Sansa!” she cried, serious and shocked. “What are you… how did you… when did you make it here?”

Sansa could remember meeting Brienne on the road with Petyr, and refusing to go with her. At the time, she had been uncertain of Brienne’s loyalties, and Petyr, though untrustworthy, was at least a known quantity who had kept her safe.

Jeyne jumped in and told the women that Sansa had only arrived two days ago. Brienne pulled up a chair and helped Sansa slide down the crutches into the seat. Brienne then leaned back in her own seat and slowly swept her eyes from the top of Sansa’s styled hair to the bottom of her borrowed shoes. The woman seemed to catalogue the whole of Sansa’s experience since they last met with only a gaze.

“You escaped Ramsay,” she stated more than said. “Are you well?”

Sansa had no idea how to answer that. “I will be,” she decided upon.

“Do you know Major Tarth then, Sansa?” Jeyne asked.

Brienne answered for her. “Only a fleeting acquaintance. But I knew her mother very well. My deepest condolences, Miss Stark, on her death, and that of your brother, Robb.”

Sansa tried not to look as devastated as she felt. She knew that the dead in her world remained dead here – otherwise surely Robb would have gifted her himself and father and mother in this camp. But to hear out loud that they were still dead stung her soul.

“Thank you, Major Tarth. I miss them every day, as I’m sure you can understand,” Sansa smiled sadly.

Brienne nodded gravely at that, and turned to introduce the other woman at the table. “This is Gilly, and her boy, Sam.”  
  
The pretty woman bounced a jolly, fat baby on her knee, which struck Sansa as shocking odd in a war camp. The babe grinned at Sansa and babbled some amusing nonsense.  
  
“Hello, Miss Stark. It’s good to meet another civilian – not many of us here. I’m here with Captain Tarly. I think he’s been attending you…”  
  
“Oh! Sam! Of course.” How lovely that the lovely doctor had an equally lovely wife and babe, Sansa thought. She sat down to hear all the details about little Sam, when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye that set every nerve in her body on edge. Brienne’s hulking form, towering over Gilly and Sansa, blocked her view, so she leaned slightly to the right, wary of being seen. What she saw froze the blood in her veins all over again, as surely as the snow and ice had done two nights ago. Just inside the entrance to the mess tent was Myranda, a gun strapped to her hip and a look of pure evil on her unnaturally pale face.  
  
Sansa had to grip the chair to stop herself jumping up and running blindly from the tent. Instead, she leaned straight over her knees and gripped Brienne’s jacket by its shiny buttons. “Major Tarth,” she whispered, “Please stand between myself and the entrance to the tent. Then lead me out the back, keeping me in your shadow.”  
  
Bless the loyal knight that Brienne truly was, because she didn’t even question the strange command, or the fact that the general’s young sister was ordering her about. She did precisely as asked, sliding Sansa out a nearby exit so cleanly that Gilly and Jeyne, deep in conversation, almost didn’t notice.  
  
Once outside in the sunlit morning, Sansa made to run to Jon’s tent, then realised that she couldn’t run with the crutches, and that Jon had left for the morning. “Major Tarth,” she asked, thinking quickly, “could you show me to Field Marshal Baratheon’s tent?”

…

Sansa manoeuvred into his tent on a set of worn crutches and seemed to be breathless with the effort, flushed and nervy. Her eyes shone wide and clear and the shade of blue made him wish to remember all the poetry lessons he had disdained at secondary school, searching for a proper comparison, Shakespeare or Shelley or something to describe the exact moment of a clear morning sky over the sea that her eyes evoked. He pulled himself together. Both Major Tollett and Davos were now looking at Sansa, too.

“Miss Stark, our meeting is not due to begin until ten,” Stannis began and ended, expecting her to acknowledge the rightness of his statement and leave. Instead, she rushed into a string of sentences that all faded into insignificance against the hand that she was holding out to him over the top of her right crutch, clearly beckoning him to follow her outside. Stannis stared at the hand. Was it possible for her hands to be gorgeous?

“…I recognized her straight away and I don’t know what she’s planning and she’d been seething over the linens…”

Linens? What nonsense was the woman spouting?

“…and I cannot think of another reason for her to be here but surely Ramsay would not allow it…” Sansa seemed to have a moment of self-doubt about her theory. Stannis could not fathom what the girl was on about, but he registered clearly enough that she was trembling. Behind the rambling, Sansa was terrified. Stannis had no idea what to do with a terrified girl. Should he radio Jon to get him back from patrol?

Before he could react, Sansa stood up straight, to what he had just realised was her not inconsiderable height, and rammed one crutch down onto the bare wooden floor of his tent, her injured approximation of stamping a foot.

“Come with me!” she cried out, exasperated at this lack of cooperation. Sensing something of the urgency of the situation, Stannis stood up so fast that his heavy chair tipped precariously backwards before righting itself. He followed her swaying red hair to the entrance of the tent. She stopped suddenly, and Stannis had to put a hand on her shoulder to stop himself from bumping into her with force. She swung her head around, ignoring Stannis entirely, and looked back impatiently at Davos and Edd, those big eyes narrow and commanding, and demanded: “Aren’t you coming?” Both men swung into their overcoats and followed along.

Sansa hobbled rather slowly on her new crutches, and Stannis clenched his jaw impatiently as he followed her across the snowy yard towards the mess tent. Now that he was outside, he felt utterly ridiculous for following this woman without so much as a coherent explanation.

“I saw her in the mess tent,” she continued her diatribe from earlier. “I was behind Brienne, though, and she did not see me.”

“Saw who?” Davos asked evenly.

“Whom,” Stannis muttered. The situation was intolerable, and he was not going to sit idly by and listen to the English language be trampled along with his dignity.

Sansa glared at the pair of them, but the terror still bubbled beneath. “Myranda. Ramsay’s lover. From Winterfell.”

Before she had even finished the sentence, Edd and Davos had disappeared, crouched and silent, around opposite sides of the tent while Stannis, gun drawn, headed to the main entrance. He shoved Sansa behind him and slid to the side of the entrance, peering through. Pressed up to his side, Sansa murmured a description of the woman: short, slim, long, dark hair, dressed in a grey-green Westerosi uniform. Stannis’ eyes swept the crowd and spotted her immediately.

“Wait outside,” he ordered Sansa, who backed awkwardly away on her crutches.

A moment later he emerged with Davos and Major Tollett, who dragged a feral, snarling Myranda between them. Her feet wheeled in the mud and long strands of her hair caught in her teeth as she scratched and bit and struggled to free herself. When she caught sight of Sansa, standing shocked and injured to one side, Myranda lunged for her.

“I will end you, you whore!” Myranda growled. She slashed towards Sansa’s face with her nails. “I saw the blood on those sheets. I know that he fucked you,” she hissed. Davos and Edd had her trapped tight between them, but she bucked her whole body, forcing the men half a step closer to Sansa, who stood an easy yard beyond Stannis. As she continued to thrash, Stannis glanced behind him at Sansa to gauge her reaction. She said nothing, but her facial expression had moved beyond terrified and through to horrified. Her lip quivered very slightly, if you were really looking. Stannis knew the look of someone forcing themselves not to flinch.

Myranda kept raging and fighting and struggling towards Sansa. Convinced that the hatred was real and not faked for his benefit to back up Sansa’s claims, Stannis stepped up to Myranda and whacked her across the head with the butt of his pistol. She slumped to the mud between Edd and Davos, and they dropped her limp arms and let her sink into the slush beneath their feet. Stannis ordered a few enlisted men to tie her arms and lock her up.

“Once you have her in the brig, throw a bucket of cold water over her and wake her up, Major Tollett. I have a few questions for her,” he called. He turned to find Sansa, to ask if she was well, only to see that she had already begun shuffling towards Jon’s tent, and that Major Tarth had appeared from nowhere to help her.

…

Myranda told Stannis that she was an expert in torture. That nothing he could think of could compare to Ramsay’s inventiveness, his ruthlessness. She told them about hunting, about the women he raped and bled and brutalised. She told them how she had locked up Sansa herself, taunted her through the solid door that trapped Jon’s sister in her castle room. Myranda said that she had let herself in to eat stew and bread and cakes in front of Sansa as she starved. She bragged of her part in Ramsay’s torturings, of beating Sansa with Ramsay’s belt until she cried, of shooting dead Theon on the night of Sansa’s escape. She made sure that Stannis knew she’d been aiming for Sansa, that the next bullet would have been hers. She grinned through the whole tale. She spat the bloody story at his feet.

After that, Davos and Stannis broke her in less than 10 minutes. Being a torturer did not make a person even slightly better at being tortured, a fact Stannis would happily have shared with her for free. But he enjoyed breaking Myranda, he enjoyed her pleas for mercy, and he enjoyed bleeding every last fact about Ramsay and his troops from her lips. Stannis was not a man with a taste for torture; he only ever did what was absolutely necessary to gain intelligence. But he allowed himself an exception in this case, and he knew damn well it was because of Sansa. As he left the concrete room they’d locked Myranda in, he threw an extra bucket of cold water over her shattered, convulsing body. A little taste of hypothermia might do her soul some good, he reckoned.

By the time Stannis trudged back to his tent, it was well past midday and Jon had returned from the edges of Winterfell to confirm all of the intelligence that had already gathered, numbers and munitions. He was waiting for Stannis, warming his hands over the fire Major Tollett had lit. Stannis walked in with his hands still bloodied, little specks clung to his face and hair. He splashed himself clean in a basin by the coatrack and dried them meticulously, draping the damp towel around his neck as he sank into his desk chair.

Jon made to speak, but Stannis cut him off. “I trust that your mission this morning confirmed our earlier intelligence on the enemy,” he rumbled. Jon nodded in confirmation. “Good. We need to attack Winterfell. Now. Before first light, tomorrow morning.”

“Alright,” Jon responded carefully. “That’s possible, of course. We are ready. But why tomorrow morning?”

“Because Ramsay is not in the castle walls. He’s out with his dogs, hunting.”

Jon looked incredulous. “The leader of Nazi forces in the North has gone out fox hunting? In mid-winter? With the bulk of our forces on his doorstep?”

Stannis looked grimmer than usual. “According to his mad girlfriend, Ramsay’s not hunting foxes. He’s out with a pack of vicious hounds, hunting for your sister.” While Jon paled, Stannis motioned for him to sit down. He pulled out a cigarette for himself and offered one to Jon, who waved him off. Stannis lit up and shifted in his desk chair. “It gets worse. She told me about where Ramsay had been keeping Sansa, and about the torture chamber where he plans to chain her up when he hunts her down.” Stannis took a long drag, and Jon reached out and helped himself to the packet. “She went into some descriptive detail about what the two of them intended to do to her. I’m not going to repeat it. I’d like to unhear it myself.”

A wave of revulsion swept through Jon. “I’m going to kill that fucker,” he seethed.

“Not if I get to him first,” Stannis shot back.

Sansa pressed herself into a dark corner near the edge of the tent. She could hear Stannis’ deep rumble and Jon’s answering growls. So tomorrow Jon and Stannis’ combined forces would take back Winterfell. Her home, however burnt and broken, would be free. Hers and Jon’s to rule. And Ramsay would be dead. She let a little smile play across her face. “Maybe I’ll get to him first.”

…

Sansa hid herself away in Jon’s tent that afternoon, as men rushed through the slush and frozen ground in a frenzy of last-minute preparations. She peeked out only to see lorries and jeeps as they crisscrossed the muddy roads, taking men and weapons the like of which Sansa had never seen towards their positions. They wouldn’t move out until well past midnight. If Ramsay was off guard, they didn’t want to warn him with a massive troop movement until it was too late for him to respond.

The king called for her just after sunset. She’d never had a chance to thank him for how he handled Myranda. Jon had told her the bare bones of it, that Myranda had given over far greater intelligence than Sansa had access to. She was a bit surprised that in the midst of all the organised chaos before a battle, King Stannis was bothered to speak to her.  
  
She picked her way over to his tent with painstaking care, avoiding the rush of men and the uneven mess they had made of the wet ground. Her strange new shoes and stockings were caked in mud along with her crutches by the time she hobbled into the tent. It was warm and softly lit by several of those ingenious, flameless lanterns. She headed for the chair that Davos indicated.

She startled. A loud, sonorous voice filled the tent, but none of its occupants were speaking. Sansa glanced around – the voice seemed to originate from a wooden box on a shelf near Stannis’ desk. She stepped back in shock. Davos and Stannis were watching her like hawks. Edd just chuckled, “Not a fan of the BBC? Can’t blame you. You’re in good company here, then.”

Sansa couldn’t stop herself from wandering over and walking a half-circle around the voice-box. Whose voice was that, and where was the person? Then she noticed Davos and Stannis regarding her curiously. Whatever the thing was, she was supposed to be aware of it, not to regard it as anything special. Edd reached over to the box and rotated a round button. A loud click sounded, and the voice stopped, mid-word. Sansa blinked in surprise. She attempted a laugh to Edd, “Thank you. You’re exactly right. No BCC today.”

Stannis raised an eyebrow. “BBC,” he corrected, slowly, his voice betraying that she had just made the sort of slip that no one of this era ever would. He rose from his chair and walked around his desk, pulling a chair out for her and helping her into it, then propping her crutches against the canvas wall. She cursed herself inwardly for the mistake.

“I never had the chance to thank you, Field Marshal, for capturing Myranda today,” she began.

Stannis considered her coldly. “No need to thank me, Miss Stark. Of course I apprehended and questioned her: she is an enemy of the rightful Westerosi state.”

“Yes, of course,” Sansa replied anxiously, completely thrown out by her mistake. She twisted her hands in her lap. Stannis’ eyes zeroed in on her hands.

“Are you quite well, Miss Stark?” he asked, but somehow managed to make it sound like a demand that she be well.

Colonel Seaworth coughed. “Perhaps Miss Stark would like a cup of tea, Field Marshal. It has been a trying day, and she must be worried about her brother going into battle tomorrow. I’ll fetch her one back. C’mon Edd, let’s go.”

Sansa tried to beg them with her eyes not to leave her here, alone, with the king. But Edd just gave her a supportive grin and marched out behind Davos. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and turned her gaze back to Stannis. She willed herself not to fidget with the buttons on her coat; Septa Mordane would be turning in her grave if Sansa gave in to fidgeting. In front a king, no less. She straightened her spine at the thought of her septa.

“You must think me frightfully foolish, Field Marshal,” Sansa tried, “I’ve just…”

“You’re clearly no fool, Miss Stark,” he countered sharply. “You came straight to me this morning when you spotted a Nazi in our camp. What interested me is that she was not here spying, as one might suspect. She was very clearly after you. She wanted… how did she put it… to mutilate your pretty face.” Stannis stopped talking and resumed watching her like a wolf.

Her response was to stop breathing. Did his voice sound suspicious? Or just concerned?

“Ramsay… he does not lose lightly. I ran away from him, and it was a personal affront. It was a personal affront to Myranda that Ramsay married me. That he…” Sansa trailed off, not quite able to admit to this cold king what she had admitted to Sam and Jeyne.

“That he raped you,” Stannis finished for her. “I take it that’s what she meant by blood on the sheets.”

Sansa had resumed breathing, very rapidly now. She could not believe some man – a man who was not a maester - was discussing this with her. Openly. As though she should willingly participate in a dialogue about her own defilement.

She must have looked as panicked and humiliated as she felt, because Stannis seemed to soften his stance. “I am not good with kind words, Miss Stark. I did not call you here to torment you with all of this. I wanted you to know that I understand what is at stake for you tomorrow.” He pushed a sheet of paper towards her across his desk. She did not have the coordination to pick it up, trying to hide her shaking hands from view in her lap. She leaned over to look at the words printed on the top of the page: Order of Annulment. “It’s yours. But I want you to know that you will not need it, because after tomorrow he will be dead. I want to make you that promise, Miss Stark. Ramsay Bolton will not survive the battle, and you will be free of him forever. You will have justice.”

 _Stannis Baratheon is a just man_ , she remembered Tyrion telling her before the Blackwater. _If he takes the Red Keep, seek him out. He will not see you harmed._

Sansa wanted to tell him that no measure of justice would erase what had already been done to her, and that no other person killing Ramsay would give her the satisfaction that driving a dagger through his black heart herself would give her. But she couldn’t say any of that. So she just thanked him in a shaky voice.

“Is that all, Field Marshall? I find myself quite exhausted.”

When he nodded, she tried to stand, only to stumble towards the desk, supporting herself on the edge. The move twisted her ankle and knocked her wounded leg against the chair leg. The King practically leapt over the desk to take her arm. “Miss Stark, you are unwell. I should not have said all of this to you. I will take you back to your brother’s tent.” She clung onto his arm, her injured leg nearly buckling beneath her. She could feel his muscles flex through the wool of his jumper with the effort of holding her up. He tucked her crutches under his other arm and led her slowly out into the yard.

Major Tollett and Davos appeared with the tea as they left the tent. Davos shoved everything into Edd’s hands and took the crutches from Stannis. Sansa willed herself the limp straight and true towards Jon’s tent, and not to show any further weakness in front of the king. Just he might be, she thought, but not overly sympathetic. She made it 10 steps further before a shooting pain through her injured leg forced a sharp intake of breath. Stannis stopped walking, while Davos carried on, taking her crutches back to the tent. His face tilted down to hers, but where she expected to see annoyance on his features, she found only unease and possibly concern.

“Miss Stark, if you’ll allow it, I can carry you the rest of the way. It’s not far, but I fear you may reinjure that leg carrying on as we are,” he muttered, very much as if he wanted to be discussing any other topic.

Sansa knew she must have shame and shock written across her own features, and she felt her face burning with a blush. “Yes,” against she swallowed down the ‘your grace’ that was on her lips, “Field Marshal. I believe you are correct.”

He swung her up in his arms and moved quickly across the yard in long, sure strides. Davos was holding the tent flap open for them, as Jon was out organising tomorrow’s attack. The king set her down on the edge of Jon’s bed.

“Colonel Seaworth will call for Capt Tarly to have another look at your leg,” he said, sitting in a chair directly across from her. Davos snapped a salute to his commander and took off at a brisk pace. “I am sorry that I do not have time to sit with you, Miss Stark,” he continued, and Sansa was certain her eyes widened in horror at the thought of spending more time along with Stannis Baratheon. “I want to tell you that you will spend tomorrow with the medical team. It is the safest place on the battlefield, as you will still be surrounded by soldiers who will protect you should Ramsay come looking for you. He sounds deranged.”

“He is, yes,” Sansa agreed. There was no telling what Ramsay might attempt to do to her, even in the midst of a battle. “I will speak to Capt Tarly when he arrives, and do as he bids tomorrow.”

He stood, and he seemed almost regretful to be leaving. Please leave, Sansa willed him out of the tent. For one long, terrible moment, she feared he might take her hand in parting. Sansa quickly tucked them beneath her thighs. Instead, he merely nodded at her and wished her well. “We shall be waking in a few hours to move out. I want the whole camp to get a few hours of sleep. Good night, Miss Stark.”

“Good night, Field Marshal. I shall pray for your success and your safety.”

The king stood in the tent flap, half turned towards her and framed in the false light of the courtyard lamps. “Will you?” he asked, then disappeared from the tent before she could think of an answer.

Sansa leaned back on Jon’s narrow bed, closed her eyes and waited for Sam. After tomorrow, she would either be a free woman in possession of her own home, or she would be dead. A pity, really, that she no longer believed in prayers.


	4. The Battle for Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I thank you so much for all your kind words and support and general loveliness! What a gorgeous yacht this is. 
> 
> Warning: it's a battle, and Ramsay will make an appearance, and things will get graphic.

The first time she’d been in a jeep, Sansa hadn’t really noticed how it felt, how it moved. Now, crammed into the back of a lorry with maesters and nurses and host of warriors from north of the wall, she could feel the carriage creak and moan and shudder its way along the muddy track that led to Winterfell. She was wrapped tight in a too-large overcoat, huddled between Jeyne and Gilly, still wearing the same scandalously short skirt she’d worn yesterday. Against the lurching of the lorry, she tried to keep her legs tucked demurely to one side.

 

A row of large men sat silently across from her in the lorry. They all stared at her – not at Jeyne or Gilly or the other nurses, just at her, as though she held some sort of particular fascination for them. A huge, heavily bearded man with hair as red as her own sat directly across from her, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re Jon’s sister,” he half-asked, half-told in a hearty chortle. “The one Baratheon was carrying around the camp. Good on you, girl. I’ve not seen him look sideways at a skirt in the three years I’ve known him, not even his own wife.” He paused a moment. “May her soul rest in peace,” he added as an afterthought.

 

“You know Jon?” she enquired politely, trying to shift to make as little of her person visible as possible.

 

The Northern warriors barked out laughs at that. “We know him,” Tormund affirmed over their laughter. “He saved us once, and we’ll repay the favour now, fighting to take back that castle of his. Of yours, I guess.” Tormund stopped smiling and looked at her straight on, seriously. “We’d do anything for Jon Snow. And for his kin.”

 

Sansa could feel her blush burning through her skin. She hadn’t seen Jon that morning – he was gone with the front line of soldiers by the time Sam woke her. Gone along with the king, and Colonel Seaworth and Major Tollett.

 

“I’m Tormund Giantsbane,” he boomed. “I got no rank, me, just volunteering here, so you can call me Tormund, girl.” She noticed that he wasn’t really dressed in uniform. His warm coat was leather, lined with fur, with enormous black buttons that looked to be made of some kind of polished bone. The men surrounding him wore similar clothes, dark and practical, but not the Westerosi uniform of Stannis’ camp. These men must be Wildlings, Sansa thought with a start. Ramsay had tried to taunt her with the news that Jon had brought Wildlings south of the wall to fight with him.

 

Sansa gave Tormund an anxious smile. “Tormund, how very good to make your acquaintance.”

 

Tormund laughed all the louder at that. “Oh, she is a princess, this one!” He roared to the men around him, who roared back. “Jon always said you were a pampered thing. Have me a sister as pretty as a fairy tale, he used to tell us. He’s never lied to us yet, Jon Snow hasn’t.”

 

Sansa shifted to look over at Gilly, who held little Sam in her lap, swaddled in woollen blankets and a knitted cap. He did not fuss or make a sound, the uneven swaying of the lorry rocking him to sleep. On her other side, Jeyne squeezed her arm every so often, and she whispered that Sansa should not be afraid. She told her stories of Stannis’ brilliance as a commander, of his grit at the Siege of Storm’s End.

 

Jeyne clearly hadn’t been in King’s Landing for the Battle of Blackwater Bay, Sansa thought unkindly.

 

To distract herself from her worries, she thought about what the king had done for her yesterday. He had immediately believed her report about Myranda, and he had acted decisively in her favour. Both Jeyne and Brienne had come at a run the moment that Stannis had left the tent last night. Half the camp, it seemed, had seen the commander carrying Sansa across the compound, although the rush to war kept the speculation on what this might mean to a minimum. Brienne was disbelieving – “Stannis Baratheon carried you in his arms so that you wouldn’t strain your leg?” – but grudgingly admitted that he had dealt with Myranda admirably. Brienne had slept on the floor of the tent last night, neither of them waking when he returned to restock his gun with ammunition and secure his dagger to his leg. He’d left Sansa a note: “We will have our home back, Sansa. Stay strong and stay safe for Winterfell. Love, Jon”. Sansa had cried onto Brienne’s broad shoulder at that, then dried her tears and readied herself to leave.

 

The convoy ground to a halt on a hill above the valley that dipped to the east of Winterfell. Sansa could see the castle in the darkness, lit up with those unreal lamps that could burn all night. She guessed they must be two hours from dawn yet. The scale of this new style of warfare meant that Sansa could not see the bulk of Stannis’ forces. Ramsay, she knew, had been caught out of the castle walls, still ranging with his hounds, looking for the wife he had lost to a desperate escape and an iron-clad annulment.

 

She stepped gingerly from the back of the lorry with Jeyne and Gilly as the soldiers in their detail set to putting up the tents that would act as a field hospital. They worked quickly and efficiently in the pitch dark of the moonless night, not lighting any of their flameless lanterns to avoid giving away their position to the garrison at Winterfell.

 

She was unloading bandages and alcohol and tubes of what Sam described as a powerful painkiller called morphine when she heard the loudest sound she had ever heard in her life. Louder than the wildfire hitting Stannis’ fleet at the Blackwater. Louder than the brutal clang of swords and axes on the walls of King’s Landing. It shook the ground beneath her feet and tumbled her onto a freshly made cot. She twisted on her crutches to avoid re-injuring her leg and looked desperately for Jeyne.

 

“It’s our tanks firing,” Jeyne told her. “It’s begun.”

 

Sansa made her way outside of the tent and stood on the hill. She could see the night sky beyond Winterfell lit up with sporadic bursts of fire and flashes of light. The castle stood out in bold relief when the bright flames flashed, but as the battle raged, thick smoke obscured her view.

 

The injured soldiers began flowing into their tents soon after that. Lorries drove them up through the woods behind the battlefront and left dozens of injured men lying in the snow outside the medical tents, bleeding the snow red.

 

Their unit had a ‘radio’ that allowed them to listen in on the situation at the front, and given Sansa’s lack of mobility, Tormund tasked her with helping to pass on any messages from command. She sat stock still in front of the magical voice box – _radio! Don’t be a fool, Sansa_ – and she could hear Jon and sometimes the king shouting orders, meaningless to her, about so many fronts that she could not wrap her head around it.  A young man about her own age who told her to call him Pyp worked the radio, headphone about his ears, and Sansa helped him to scribble down messages. 

 

She and Pyp sat on a fallen tree at the edge of an outcrop. The green canopy above their heads whipped in the thick wind. From her vantage on the hill, Sansa watched as dawn neared and the flashes of light and the roar of tanks and artillery surrounded the castle. She feared that Stannis may destroy her home to retake it, but then the noise and the fighting seemed to fall down the hill and into the valley below their position.

 

With the first of the sun’s rays lighting the fighting from the east, she heard Davos’ deep voice over the radio.  “Medical! Get Tormund to the radio!” He barked out a series of numbers that Sansa scratched down onto the sheaf of parchments she had been given. Pyp took off at a run to find Tormund.

“Medical. Do you copy?” Sansa copied what she’d seen Pyp doing, so she knew enough to press the button at the side of the device to speak into it, and then let it go to hear Davos. “Yes, Colonel Seaworth, I have copied it all down. Pyp is finding Tormund right now.” She released the button. There was a short pause, then: “Sansa?” It was the king’s voice. She pressed her thumb to the button again. “Yes, your…” – _all the seven hells!_ – “…Field Marshal, I’m here.” She released the button again and awaited their next command.

 

“Where is Tormund? Why isn’t he with you?” the king demanded, and Sansa had to stop herself from pointing out that she had no control whatsoever over the Wildling commander’s movements. “Sansa, listen, get to the medical tent, or the Wilding patrol, and stay with them, okay?”

 

Sansa closed her eyes. She could hear the worry in the king’s voice, in Edd’s voice somewhere near him. She heard Edd shouting Ramsay's name and last known position. Last _known_ position. She pushed the button, keeping her eyes shut, and whispered into Stannis’ far-away ear: “He’s coming for me, isn’t he?”

 

Stannis didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

 

Sansa considered jamming the button down permanently, so that she wouldn’t hear the rest.

 

“We’ve broken his line, and his forces have either surrendered, or are being destroyed. We have Winterfell.” She could hear the gunfire and blasting in the background. Was Jon somewhere safe? Probably not. Jon and the king were probably at the front of the fighting.

 

“But you don’t have him.”

 

“No.” She could hear him breathing steadily. She rested her forehead against the metal contraption that let the king speak to her at a distance. The noise beyond them both was deafening as the last of Ramsay’s defences shattered under the onslaught from Jon and King Stannis. Pyp had never returned, and no Pyp, she knew, meant no message had been passed to Tormund. Something had gone wrong.

 

Sansa shuddered as cold wind bit through the wool of her coat. She wished for her long, thick dresses and sturdy boots, her furs and leather gloves. She wore a pair of grey, lightly knit wool gloves, with the fingers left open so that they wouldn’t impede her dexterity in working the radio and taking notes. She ran her fingertips over the box, feeling the buzz of electricity running through it, the intricate metalwork over the open space that let through the voices. The men who had told her to count on them were trapped in that strange box, and the one who had held her down and taken her against her will was running, deadly determined, through the woods. She could almost feel his feet striking the ground, drawing nearer. The smell of blood carried to her from the medical tent a short distance away and took her head all the way back to King’s Landing and Joffrey and her father.

 

Sansa unpicked a yarn from one her gloves as the king spoke. Meaningless words of protection droned over her thoughts across the crackly radio, and the blasts and booms died out near the castle along with the last of Ramsay’s men. She allowed herself a scoff, now that no one could hear it. _Horseshit_ , Sansa thought, then giggled to herself for swearing, even if only in her head. The men around her cursed. Jon spoke roughly, like a warrior, a soldier. Why was she forever speaking so sweetly? It gained her nothing. _They’re all full of shit, these men_ , she thought, enjoying the thrill of the foul words. The sun was full up, and Sansa had an unparalleled view of the castle, a valley of dead and dying men between herself and her home, the landscape torn and pitted with bomb blasts. Stannis had her castle, or perhaps he’d give it to Jon.

 

She wound the yarn tight around the large button on the side of the handset. The sound of the king’s voice stopped, and nothing was left but the staticky sound of her own silence. They’d have to listen to her now, and she planned to say nothing at all. Sansa stared across the valley at her father’s former bannermen turned traitor to House Stark, men who had sided with the Boltons and the Lannisters, now unrecognizable in Nazi black and dead on the battlefield.

 

Ramsay moved soft and stealthy, not interrupting her view, as he closed his arms around her. He rested the side of his head against her hair.  For a few moments he said nothing, lost in the same scene before them. Finally, “Little wife,” he whispered against her ear.

 

“Not exactly,” she responded, flatly. “There’s been an annulment.”

 

“An annulment?” he let out a bitter laugh. “You and I both know that marriage was consummated. I bet you can still feel it here.” He let one hand slip lewdly into her lap. 

 

Sansa hummed indifferently. She kept her gaze fixed on Stannis’ forces, rushing across the ramparts  of her castle. Ramsay held her pinned and bruising, and looked out without blinking to the battlefield as well.

 

“Stannis has Winterfell,” she said. “Jon has Winterfell.”

 

“But we have each other, little wife,” Ramsay purred. “Surely that’s some consolation.” He gripped her jaw hard in one hand and turned her face from the castle walls. His face was caked in sweat and blood, his eyes the same vacant, translucent blue that sent shivers down her spine. Sansa listened to the open sizzle of the radio, no longer making those horseshit promises of protection. She hoped that they could hear how pointless their words had been.

 

…

 

With Gendry tearing along the dirt track at the edge of the woods at breakneck speed, Stannis tensed his left arm on the grab handle above the Land Rover’s passenger door. The portable radio was in Edd’s lap, in the backseat. Stannis was fairly certain that was his own blood leaking down the front of his jacket. It seemed to originate from his left shoulder, as it grew distinctly worse with every corner that Gendry swerved round. There was certainly a sharp pain there, but then again pretty much everything hurt if Stannis allowed himself to stop and think about it. So he did not.

 

Stannis gripped the receiver in his right hand, urging Sansa again to fetch Tormund. He reassured her that they were coming, that they would protect her, but he sensed she was no longer listening. Finally, he heard the telltale static of her cutting off his line. He waited for her response, or maybe for Tormund to tell command that he had the Stark girl secured. But there was no word from Sansa. Stannis could hear the occasional shout or scream from the medical tent in the tinny distance across the line.

 

The moment they had taken the castle and realised that Ramsay was missing, Jon had shoved Stannis towards the passenger seat of Gendry’s car. Winterfell had to be cleared of the enemy, and Jon knew the castle. This had been the plan all along: Jon would secure the castle and Stannis the battle.

 

Now, though, what both men wanted to secure was a front that suddenly felt all too vulnerable. So he sped across the valley and up the steep climb to Sansa. Jon had threatened to go himself, and only the promise of sending Stannis in his place kept him in Winterfell.

 

The silence of the radio line shattered with Ramsay’s words: “Little wife.”  Stannis felt like the man was whispering it into his own ear, all the menace and hatred packed into what could have passed for an endearment on paper.

 

“Fuck,” Edd hissed from the backseat before Stannis could say the same. Gendry sped up.

 

“Come, wife, let’s go for a stroll,” Ramsay snarled. “What’s this? Are you injured? Well, my little wolf, let me help you.”

 

Stannis could clearly hear Sansa swallowing down a yelp of pain. The radio was just sensitive enough to pick up faint sounds of a struggle.

 

“Fuck,” Stannis breathed. “Faster, Gendry, dammit.”

 

“There’s a Greyjoy destroyer patrolling off the coast beyond the Dreadfort. Shall we go for a cruise, wife?” Stannis pulled his gun out of its holster. He had a visual now to match the audio: he could see the bright white cross on the side of the medical tent and his eyes swept the ridge until he could see Sansa as well, near the edge of a steep ravine overlooking the valley. She was struggling against Ramsay, trying to push him away. Stannis looked on helplessly as Ramsay hauled back his arm and hit her with enough force to snap her head in Stannis’ direction. He caught the blue of her eyes before they closed and she dropped like a stone into the dirt.

 

Too far, he was still too far away and moving at too high a speed for a clean shot.

 

Close enough, though, that Ramsay heard the sound of the engine and the grind of the gears as Gendry threw the Land Rover around the final bends at a speed he didn’t know the old vehicle could reach. That Nazi wanker looked him straight in the eye and he fucking grinned at Stannis. Grinned like he knew that even after losing the battle, he could still take away something that Stannis wanted.  Ramsay crouched down by Sansa, then pull her into his arms and stood staring down the Land Rover, using her body as a shield. He looked directly at Stannis and raised a knowing eyebrow. Ramsay pulled out a handgun and aimed it at that beautiful girl’s heart.

 

Stannis stopped breathing.

 

Gendry threw on the handbrake and spun the Land Rover into a skidding, swerving halt at the side of the canopy that whipped in the breeze above the radio.

 

“Stannis!” Ramsay called out in mock welcome as Stannis, Edd and Gendry leapt from the vehicle. “Look at us all gathered here together. Have you met my wife?” He stroked one hand down Sansa’s thick hair, the other held nuzzle of the gun pressed to her chest. Blood ran freely down one side of her face and her eyes were closed softly, her head tucked between Ramsay’s chin and shoulder. “Now you three take a few steps back, and stay in front of me. Good. Don’t move.”

 

Stannis, Edd and Gendry planted their feet several yards from Ramsay and Sansa. Too far for a clean shot with Sansa’s body blocking Ramsay. “Bolton, you lost the battle. Your forces are dead, dying or captured. Turn yourself in and you will be tried fairly as a prisoner of war.”

 

Ramsay laughed. “Stow the bullshit, Baratheon. If I turn myself in, I’m dead.” He yanked Sansa’s body against his chest. “I could put a bullet through _your_ heart right now, but that’s the same result: me dead along with you. You know, I imagine my wife might persuade you to release me.” He didn’t look away from Stannis’ eyes as squeezed one of Sansa’s breasts through the thick wool of her uniform. “She’s a sweet one, Baratheon. Far sweeter than that bitter woman you married.  Don’t you want a taste?”

 

Stannis tightened his grip on his pistol, but kept it pointed at Ramsay’s right temple, furthest from Sansa. Edd and Gendry had their weapons drawn and aimed as well, and Ramsay didn’t waver his attention from the muzzles of the guns.

 

“What deal do you want to negotiate, bastard?” Stannis growled.

 

“You will have this young man here,” he nodded at Gendry, “drive me to White Harbour. I will take a Greyjoy vessel from there to King’s Landing.”

 

Stannis scoffed. “You want to throw yourself on Cersei Lannister’s mercy after you lost the north to me? Good luck with that.”

 

Ramsay shot him that maniacal grin again. “Cersei will welcome me with open arms, because I have something she desperately wants. Her son Joffrey’s pretty, Jewish murderer.  Didn’t you know that’s how it was done? She poisoned him at his own wedding to Margery Tyrell.” Ramsay tugged Sansa closer, but his eyes never left Stannis’ weapon. “She looks so innocent, and so reassuringly simple-minded. Doesn’t even look like a Jew. She was the perfect Allied weapon. You should all be proud of yourselves, getting her to do all the dirty work for you. Now she can pay the price, and you can have her castle. A good deal for both of us.”

 

“No deal, bastard. Miss Stark stays here.”

 

Before Ramsay could retort, an enormous flame of a man flew through the air at Ramsay and Sansa. Tormund dove from behind, and Ramsay didn’t see what hit him until he was tackled to the ground by a hulk with ginger hair and a deafening war cry. Tormund managed to sweep Ramsay away from Sansa, shoving her hard towards Stannis.

 

Stannis threw himself into the dirt beneath Sansa, scooping her up before she could hit the ground. Tormund wrestled Ramsay to the ground; the Nazi’s gun went off, but the bullet lodged harmlessly in a tree. Stannis raised himself to his knees, with Sansa draped across his thighs, her head cradled in the crook of his arm. She blinked open her eyes; Stannis watched as she struggled to focus on his face.

 

“Ramsay…” she sputtered in a panic.

 

Stannis had brought one of her hands up to her chest, and he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Tormund has him. I have you,” Stannis assured her, and he nodded to the spot where the wildling had Ramsay pinned and unmoving on the ground.  She did not look over to where he indicated; she kept her vague gaze on him, but her body relaxed against his, which he took to be a sign that she had heard and understood. Already spattered in blood from the battle, Stannis had not immediately noticed the cut on her head seeping into his trousers, but he noticed now. He was about to call for Gendry to find a cloth when Cpt Tarly barreled onto the scene.

 

The doctor all but shoved Stannis and Edd roughly out of his way, dropping to his knees on the hard ground. “Sansa, hey there,” Sam singsonged as he lifted Sansa out of Stannis’ lap and worked his left hand under her head. He gently flexed his fingers, checking for damage. He brushed the hair away from the spot where Ramsay had hit her. “Can you tell me my name?” He isolated the source of the bleeding and pulled a sterile bandage from his pocket, ripped open the paper wrapping and applied it to the contusion.

 

“Sam,” Sansa replied sleepily. She looked disturbingly pale to Stannis, and her eyes did not focus. Not on him. Not the way he suddenly wanted them to.  Stannis stood and brushed the dirt reflexively from his knees; he could feel the warm blood on his trousers beginning to cool against his thigh.

 

“I need to you to wake up, Sansa. Can you tell me who else is here?” Sam kept up the pressure on the wound, and she drew her eyebrows together in a frown.

 

“Of course I can, Sam. I’m not vacant-minded,” she mumbled, closing her eyes again and refusing to look around.

 

“Sansa, I need you to open your eyes fully and tell me who else is here with us.” Sam’s voice was still gentle but sufficiently commanding for her to follow instructions this time.

 

She opened her eyes again with a grimace. “Edd Tollett, of the Night’s Watch.” She swivelled her eyes to the left. “Stannis of House Baratheon. Tormund Giantsbane, a Wildling warrior. I don’t know who that man is,” she finished, looking at Gendry. She looked at Ramsay but refused to say his name. “Sam,” she focussed on the doctor’s face, “I am fine. Truly. Please help me up.”

 

All four men did a doubletake at her interpretation of Stannis’ name and her outdated language about Tormund. She had the answers right, though, enough to rule out the most serious medical concerns, and Sam helped her to her feet. She swayed for a moment and leaned on the doctor to favour her injured leg, and she still looked pale and frightened to Stannis. He wanted to wrap this up and take her back to Winterfell to rest. _He_ wanted to rest. Preferably wherever she was. Appalled with himself, he pushed that thought away. He felt exhausted to his bones: the adrenaline of the battle and Ramsay’s capture was starting to ebb away.  

 

He moved to stand in front of Ramsay. Tormund had jockeyed him into an upright position, with his arms secured behind his back by the Northern soldier and Edd’s pistol still aimed at his bloodied head. Stannis had not been entirely on board with Jon’s idea to bolster their forces with indigenous Northern warriors, but he was damned glad of Tormund’s presence now.

 

Stannis ordered Edd and Tormund to secure him with rope and to gag him if he spoke. He would bring Ramsay to Winterfell, where they could imprison him until a military tribunal could be convened. He could have him tried and sentenced within a couple of weeks…

 

Sansa broke his line of thought as she came level with him in front of Ramsay, pulling an unwilling Capt Tarly behind her and limping heavily. Stannis stood only a couple of feet from Ramsay, and Tarly tried to hold her back, but she simply shook him off and reached for Stannis’ arm instead. He found he had unconsciously moved his elbow so that she could tuck her hand onto his arm, as though he were escorting her out on a date, not facing down an insane sadist. She wasn’t looking at Ramsay, though. She was looking at Stannis. Looking at him with those clear, blue eyes – azure? aquamarine? Some exotic shade, surely – and she was smiling, so that her eyes crinkled up a bit at the corners. Her eyelashes were exceptionally long and inky black. Was she wearing make-up, or were those lashes natural?

 

And thus he missed her flicking open the snap on the leather flap that held his dagger in place on his gun belt. Missed her stealing it with her right hand while her left still rested comfortably on his arm. He didn’t catch her lunging her entire body at Ramsay until she had disappeared from his grasp.

 

Edd and Tormund remained fixed in place, disbelieving as well, while Sansa sliced the dagger into the front of Ramsay’s trousers, ripping the blade through his trousers and thigh and exposing the damage she had wrought. Ramsay’s severed cock flopped to the ground and rolled towards Stannis’ feet. Blood poured down the remains of Ramsay’s trousers and pooled by his boots. He seemed to hold still in shock for a moment, and in that quiet moment no one moved except Sansa. She leaned into her ex-husband’s space, her cheek against his, her lips to his ear and whispered loudly: “That’s for Theon, bastard.”

 

With that, Ramsay’s body began to convulse and he lost the use of his legs. His screams echoed out into the valley. Edd and Tormund let him drop to his knees while they adjusted their grip on him. Stannis grabbed for Sansa, avoiding her knife hand, but she was stronger than she looked and he didn’t expect the second attack. She plunged the knife full into Ramsay’s throat and yanked it sideways, partially separating his head from his body. His screaming stopped dead as she cut his vocal chords. In the silence, his blood gushed out, soaking Stannis and Sansa, drenching their hands and clothes, spattering in their faces. “And that’s for me,” she spat.

 

Stannis had no trouble pulling her away now. She released the dagger from her grip when he gave it an easy tug, and she let him lead her away from the body. Edd and Tormund dropped Ramsay and let him bleed out in the dirt; even Sam made no move to assist a man so clearly beyond help. They all stared at her, shock evident on every face except Tormund’s. He recovered first: “You are Jon’s sister, aren’t you?” he asked in a slightly awed tone. “That’s the old family totem, isn’t it? A wolf. Ramsay should have known better.”

 

“Enough,” Stannis bit out, his face severe. “We do not murder prisoners of war, Giantsbane. We try them. It was my duty to see this man brought to justice, to answer for his crimes.”

 

Tormund looked down at Ramsay’s mutilated body, still twitching with the last of his life in the dirt. “Well, seems like justice has been served, Field Marshal.”

 

Sam stuttered a response: “Field Marshal, Miss Stark didn’t know what she was doing. She’d just suffered a head wound. You heard the odd way she referred to you a moment ago; she was not in her right mind. She was terrified and had been the victim of an attack…”

 

“Shut up, Tarly,” Stannis raged. His grip on Sansa remained light but persistent; she was staring straight ahead, over Ramsay’s body and into the valley beyond. “I am well aware of the extenuating circumstances. I have been standing right here.” He moved her out from under the canopy. “Gendry, get the car. Edd, arrange the transfer of that dead Nazi shit to the castle.”

 

Despite his anger, Stannis couldn't bring himself to grip her too tightly as he led her to the Land Rover. She still favoured her leg, and he found himself supporting her with each slow step. Before she folded herself through the door, she took one last look at Ramsay, now entirely lifeless. An enigmatic smile played at her lips for moment, before she turned away and let Stannis tuck her into the backseat. With Sansa secured, Stannis dropped into the passenger seat and slammed shut the door.

 

“Gendry,” he ordered, his face severe. “Winterfell.”


	5. Winterfell, 1944

Stannis winced in pain as he lifted Sansa out of the car and onto the stretcher that Jon had two enlisted men carrying. She had threatened to fall asleep repeatedly on the journey back, and reaching back to shake her awake strained his arm. He suspected that a bullet had been lodged in his shoulder.

“Take her to the infirmary and find Dr Wolkan,” Stannis ordered, “Have him look after Miss Stark.”

Jon leaned down to give his half-conscious sister a kiss on the forehead, gaping in alarm at the state of her: she was covered in sticky blood, her hair matted and muddy, her skirt torn and her leg swollen and red. “Stannis, what the bloody hell happened to her? Is that her blood?”

Stannis was agitated and angry and in incredible pain. “Not her blood, mostly. Some is. Ramsay whacked her across the head, then she… listen, I’ll tell you the story later. Sam checked her out briefly, but she needs Wolkan.”

Jon seemed to notice his commander for the first time. “Stannis, your shoulder is bleeding. Fucking heavily.” Jon gripped his injured arm, as if bringing it to him for a closer look. Stannis had to stifle a shout of pain and he shoved Jon roughly away. “C’mon,” Jon continued. “You’re heading to the infirmary, too. You need that closed up before you pass out with the blood loss.”

Stannis held himself as upright as possible as he followed Jon across a courtyard and into a side building of the main castle. Jon had ordered the place converted to an infirmary as soon as he’d taken the castle. Wolkan and a few nurses were fluttering around half a dozen men, all severely wounded. Stannis saw Sansa being resettled on a hastily constructed bed off to the far left, and he followed to sit next to her, on the cot opposite. He considered holding her hand, or offering some sort of comfort, but he wasn’t particularly good at comforting, and he had an unshakeable image in his head: her teeth bared as she sliced his own dagger with expert precision across Ramsay’s throat. He dropped both hands safely into his lap and tried to will away the worst of the pain. His shoulder _burned_.

She brushed away a long lock of auburn hair from her face; the movement left a new smudge of dried blood across her forehead. Her pretty eyes were clear enough, and once again they were entirely on him. He was too tired to do anything but silently list every name for every shade of blue he had ever heard: Persian (no), cornflower (no), sapphire (closer, but no)…

“Are you truly angry with me for killing Ramsay?”

Stannis shut his eyes briefly. He did not want to think about Ramsay. She sounded quite lucid to him, now that the nurses had given her some water and made her comfortable. The cut on the side of her head was being cleaned and assessed, and Stannis felt able to focus on his own pain, knowing he’d delivered Jon’s sister to safety as promised.  He would give a hefty percentage of the North he’d just recaptured not to have this conversation right now.

“It is my duty to ensure the safety of prisoners of war,” Stannis explained through his clenched jaw.

“I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you,” her voice dripping with a cold courtesy as the nurse stepped away to find Wolkan. “I am aware that you came to apprehend Ramsay and to take this important enemy as a prisoner, and instead you have only managed to apprehend me. Trust me when I tell you that you are not the first Baratheon to find me a bitter disappointment as a prisoner. Joffrey used to tell me that quite often.”

“Joffrey was no Baratheon,” Stannis retorted, before realizing that he had prioritised entirely the wrong information from her little speech. He tamped down his surprise when he registered that he had not spared any thought whatsoever to Ramsay’s capture when he climbed into the Rover with Gendry. He had been entirely consumed with thoughts of this woman being killed or kidnapped, and to hell with taking the Northern Nazi commander alive. He recovered: “You are suggesting that I don’t value your life, Miss Stark, when I have already told you that I do. I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

He hoped that would be perfectly clear: he hadn’t cared about Ramsay, only about her. About her safety. About the possibility of asking her if she’d like to go to bed with him. No! Not that last one. He really was feeling light-headed. Where was that doctor? He needed a bath to wash off all this blood, it seemed to cling to every fibre of his soul. Sansa was covered in it, too. They smelled like iron and abattoirs.

She needed a bath. He needed a bath. A vague plan began forming in his mind.

He had to be dreaming, because Sansa was standing over him, her hair wild with mud and blood, her face smudged and frantic and pained, and she was ripping open his jacket and yelling. Yelling. Loudly. Now she was ripping open his shirt. She suddenly seemed very tall from his vantage point on the cot. Had he lain down? He couldn’t remember deciding to do that. He wished she’d stop all that shouting and finish taking off his shirt and then lay down next to him.

Then Wolkan appeared in a rush, almost skidding to a stop next to him, and Sansa stepped back, but not too far. She laid her hand across his forehead, which for a moment distracted from the crushing pain of Wolkan digging about in his left shoulder. He looked up gratefully into her – cobalt? - blue eyes.  She seemed utterly lucid to him. Not temporarily insane. Stannis of House Baratheon…

He closed his eyes because she whispered to him to do so. The pain could go on without him, was his last conscious thought before he slept.

…

 

Sansa had been locked in the privy for 40 minutes. The bath, she readily admitted, had been magnificent. The hot springs beneath Winterfell transported into her own private tub at the turn of a handle, then drained away down like magic when she removed a plug. Her hair was clean and bright and soft, washed and rewashed and then softened with bottles of potion that Jeyne had given her. She smelled of flowers and incense and was wrapped up in a warm, woollen dress of deep blue. It wrapped and tied across her body, and the back closed at the neckline with one of those ingenious zippers. The dress came a bit above her knees, and Sansa surmised that the original owner had either been much shorter than herself, a bit looser of morals. Jeyne had discovered the dress in a box buried in a cupboard in one of the rooms.

She had needed to drain away and refill the bath three times to scrub the blood from herself: Ramsay’s, Stannis’, her own. She alternately sobbed and sighed in the warm water, feeling herself unhinged, horrified at her own actions, but undeniably proud of herself, as well.

Still, no matter how long she looked at the strange, porcelain bowl where she was expected to make water, she could not get her head around how she was supposed to ‘flush’. The idea of the thing was clear enough to her: pee in the bowl of water. But Jeyne had been ecstatic and very, very clear about the wonder of having ‘flushing toilets’ now that they were staying in the castle. “Finally, everything can just be flushed away!” she’d enthused on their arrival. And again, “I cannot wait for that first pull of a flush that tells me I’m back in civilisation.” So Sansa began on the floor near this ‘toilet’ and began working her way up, looking for hidden ‘flushes’.

Three minutes more passed before Sansa solved the mystery: a chain-pull attached to a lever at the top of a box attached to the wall above the toilet. She gave it a tentative pull and whoosh! A swirl of clear water descended into the bowl and swept away all before it. Sansa grinned like an idiot, because it really was a very clever invention, and because she felt very clever for having figured it out. Well, a _very_ clever person would have figured it 15 minutes ago, she thought wryly.

She hobbled warily out of the privy and into her small bedroom. Her head hurt and her leg hurt and she would be glad of a nap, but now that she was squeaky clean and dressed what passed for properly in this time, she wanted to explore. Wolkan had forced her to lie down for several hours before pronouncing her well enough to be discharged into Jeyne’s enthusiastic care. Jon disappeared and reappeared at her bedside at intervals, checking on her whenever his duties allowed.

Apprehensive, Sansa intended to make full use of what she assumed was the little time she had left of freedom. Stannis had passed out – he had lost too much blood, the nurses told her – before he could order her imprisoned for Ramsay’s murder. Maester Wolkan had given a him tube of the same pain medication that Sam had her unpacking back in the medical tent. Morphine, that was it – very powerful, according to Sam.  She had stayed with Stannis, stroking his head and holding his right hand, while the maester dug a lump of metal from his shoulder, cleaned the wound and stitched it up. Davos arrived and stood to her side as Wolkan worked on Stannis; he did not comment on her holding the king’s hand like he was a poorly infant. When Wolkan had finished, he told Davos that Field Marshal Baratheon would likely sleep for the better part of the day. Davos calmly informed that maester that the moment the commander regained consciousness, he would be hurtling off that cot and looking to slice Wolkan’s balls off for putting him under with morphine. Wolkan’s eyes went huge at that, and he stammered apologies. Sansa blushed scarlet over Davos’ unknowing turn of phrase, knowing that she had done worse to Ramsay only a couple of hours ago.

“Don’t bother apologising to me,” Davos added to Wolkan, not unkindly. “Just don’t be anywhere round here when he comes to.”

“Should I hide myself away from the field marshal’s wrath as well, Col Davos?” Sansa asked as Jeyne helped her to her feet. “I suppose he’ll want me restrained after what I did to Ramsay.”

Davos raised an eyebrow at her phrasing. “I am fairly certain, Miss Stark, that the commander will not wish to see you … restrained.” He seemed to stifle a laugh at the thought. “He will no doubt wish to question you, though.”

Now, in this odd rooms that Jon had found for her, she sat down on a thick, springy mattress, suddenly all alone with her thoughts. Jeyne had asked where Sansa’s room was, and Sansa had deflected best she could, faking confusion from the head injury. She silently thanked Sam for introducing that excuse.  She was lost in her own castle, much of it unrecognisable. Did the Sansa from this Forward Place, as she had started to refer to this time in her mind, have a wardrobe full of 1944 clothes somewhere in this castle? Where had she slept?

Jon knocked on her door, showered and brushed and dressed in a fresh uniform. The grime and dirt and blood that had been ground into both of them scrubbed away easily enough, and they sat on her soft bed in their soft clothes, talking softly of the dinner that would be ready in an hour or so. Their camp cooks had found the kitchens and the staff – none loyal to the Boltons, all happy of their deliverance – were preparing to feed the entire regiment.

Sansa perked up at mention of the staff – if she had been here, according to this time, then they must know her? Where her rooms had been?

Jon told her that the last of the Bolton prisoners has been locked away, deep in an underground passage with disused metal cages. He spoke of how he had arranged heaters and blankets and mattresses for the prisoners, which made Sansa grip her nails into the flesh of her palms. We should behead the traitors, she wanted to scream at him, not worry that the faithless murderers might catch a chill.

But Jon threw his arm around her and drew her out of her room. He wanted to visit Stannis, he said. Sansa smoothed her hands over her skirts: Petyr had told her that the action was an unconscious signal of her discomfort. He always noticed when she did it. Thank the old gods and new, Littlefinger didn’t appear to be anywhere around in this reality, and Jon didn’t know her well enough to pick up on it. He led her through the smoothly painted hallways with their hanging light fixtures and into the courtyard.  

From the outside, Winterfell looked like Winterfell: it’s rounded towers and square walls little-changed and well-maintained. But inside: False walls had been erected in front of the castle’s thick stone, stuffed with ‘insulation’ and then painted and papered in bright colours and floral patterns. Jon had smiled knowingly about how clever their father had been to turn the old place into a hotel after WW1. Sansa tried to hide her horror: after all, Jon reckoned she had been here, in this Winterfell, just days ago. She had to keep closing her jaw against the shock of each monstrous ‘modernisation’.

Much of the dungeons had been turned into games rooms and a ‘pub’, with grown men hitting a tiny ball back and forth across a miniature net on a table, or men with long sticks bumping hard balls into pockets on different tables. The place was full of soldiers in a celebratory mood, drinking tall glasses of beer and playing a huge variety of games that Sansa had never seen before.

The training yard was dominated by a bright wooden children’s play area, with swings and a slide. The forge hosted an office that had been turned into the command centre. The stables sheltered parked cars.

Jon led her up through the dungeons to a warm corridor up a level. She was certain this path had led to the barracks in her time, but the false walls were confusing her sense of direction. Stannis was in a small, clean, lemon-yellow room, asleep on a soft bed with a thick mattress like the one in her own bedroom. The white sheets almost shone in the harsh overhead light, but room was so toasty warm that the king simply lay on top of them. He was still fast asleep, but looked peaceful and not in any pain. Someone had cleaned him up, and all traces of blood and dirt had been removed from his body. He had been dressed in a clean pair soft, dark breeches, and nothing else. Sansa blushed a little at seeing the king of Westeros shirtless in bed. He was all muscle and bone, thin and strong.  Sansa set the back of her hand against his forehead and smiled gently at Jon.

“He does not feel hot, so that’s a good sign,” she stated. “Has he not woken yet?”

The voice that answered wasn’t Jon’s. “No, he’s been out since the surgery,” Sam announced, ambling over to Jon and Sansa, and all three of them looking at the king. “Wolkan really went for it with the morphine. And he never sleeps before a battle, so he’s wiped out. He’s going to be seriously brassed off when he comes to.”

“Sam!” Jon smiled, one of his rare genuine smiles, clapping Sam on the back. “You made it back. You must be wiped out. How are you still on shift?”

Sam greeted Jon with a grin, then leaned over to peck Sansa on the cheek, as though the whole Ramsay spectacle had never happened. She smiled, too. It was impossible not to smile at the man.

“Wolkan took off at a run – he’s still in the infirmary, but won’t get near Stannis. I think Davos scared him off. Still, he did a bang-up job on the commander’s shoulder. No infection, clean stitching. I’m sort of napping while the field marshal’s still out. Wolkan is dealing with the rest.”

Jon acknowledged that as camp commander, and Sam gestured to Sansa to sit on Stannis’ bed, near his uncovered feet. “Let me check out that bump to your noggin,” he said amiably. He put his hands on either side of her face and tilted her head back to look in her eyes. Sansa gazed calmly into Sam’s soft, brown eyes, while he moved her head this way and that. Jon excused himself to check the infirmary briefly, and promised to return immediately.

Sam waited for Jon’s footsteps to disappear down the corridor. “Sansa, tell me, are you all right? I’ll keep telling them you have a head injury, if you like, though honestly you seem perfectly well, no sign of concussion.” Sansa seized Sam’s hands, drawing them away from her face and into her lap.

“I feel well, but…” she bit her lip. “I would like the others to believe me injured, just for another day or so.” She let go of his hands and smoothed out the fabric of her dress across her lap. “I need a little time to think about… I mean… Ramsay was…” her breath stuttered, “I don’t know what I think of it all. Not yet. But I don’t want them to think me insane or damaged.”

Sam leaned down and gave her a warm hug. “You’re not crazy, Sansa.” She smiled at that and brushed away a stray tear. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal.”

Sam’s gentle hands were still squeezing her own when Jon walked back in. “Stannis!” he shouted happily. “You’re awake!” Sam and Sansa snapped their heads in the direction of Stannis’ glowering face, his eyes wide open and lucid.

…

Something was tickling his feet. He was swimming in the bay off Storm’s End in high summer, the water like a bath. His brothers were somewhere nearby, his parents on the beach.  He had dived so deep that the kelp of on the ocean floor brushed against his feet, soft and warm. He was calm and content, because he could hear her soft voice, murmuring… to Robert? Renly? He wanted to see her. Sansa. He swam hard for the surface, the seaweed still tickling his feet and ankles as he broke the surface and carefully opened his eyes.

Sansa was sitting on his bed, her long hair dripping down her back, scattered over his bare toes, his feet, his ankles. It swished about as Sam held her face in his hands, turning it back and forth and clearly checking for any sign of injury. Injury. His shoulder. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to disturb them. He couldn’t quite focus in on their conversation until, “Stannis!” Very boisterous. Jon.

Stannis glared at his general. Did he have to be so loud?

“How long?”

“Five hours,” Jon answered without missing a beat.

“Six,” Sansa corrected. “You were called away before and during the surgery, Jon. Six hours since you went under, Field Marshal.”

Stannis turned to sit up, causing Sansa to scramble off the bed. Sam tugged her gently to him. She pulled her dress down as far towards her knees as she could. The dress was a nice-enough shade of blue that had nothing on her eyes.

“Did Wolkan give me morphine?” he snapped. He kept his focus on Sansa; she said she’d been there during the surgery. He could remember arriving at the infirmary with her. He had a vague memory of her ripping open his shirt.

Sansa smoothed down the front of her perfectly-ordered dress. A nervous tic. He filed that information away. “Yes, you were losing such a lot of blood. You nearly passed out. Wolkan needed to get the bullet out…”

“Which he should have done without giving me morphine!” Stannis barked. “I have an army to run.” He turned his glare on Sam. “Find. Me. Wolkan. Now.”

Sam stuttered an affirmative and took off. Stannis stood up. His shoulder ached, but he felt nothing like the burning pain before. Sansa looked a bit concerned at his sudden movement, and Jon was downright grumpy over it. “Stannis, sit down,” Jon sighed, “or you’ll pull out the stitches and we’ll be back at square one. Just sit down, please, and I’ll give you a status report.” He handed Stannis a shirt.

Sansa backed her way towards the door. Jon shot her a reassuring smile and told her that she should feel free to get some food. It was late but the dining hall should still be serving, all hours today, he thought.  Find Jeyne, he suggested.

Stannis watched as Sansa tilted her head towards him, almost as if she was seeking Stannis’ permission to leave the room. As though he had any say in what this woman did, as though she hadn’t sliced the cock off a Nazi supremo earlier that day, before ripping his throat out. “I agree, Miss Stark, you have had a … complicated… day. You should keep up your strength.” Sansa looked relieved. It was not what she had expected him to say. What did she expect him to say?

…

Sansa found the kitchens right where she’d left them almost 2 millennia ago. They looked completely different, full of bright white equipment which she didn’t recognise, yet still staffed with the same cooks and servers who had been working there only a few days ago, when the castle was in Bolton hands. In her time.

The staff were in a rousing good mood, freed from the Boltons and returned to the Starks, all in a day. When the head cook, a woman called Aida, saw Sansa entering, she dropped the bread she was kneading and ran to give her a big hug.

“Oh, Miss Stark, I’m so happy to see safe and well, what after that monster Nazi,” she beamed at Sansa. “Are you hungry? Have you come in for a bite to eat?”

“No, Aida, just to see you all and rejoice that we are all well and delivered from the Boltons.”

“Aye, Miss Stark, our Jon is back, and you as well,” a few tears welled in the woman’s brown eyes. She brushed them away along with the few grey-brown hairs that had escaped her bun. She wiped her hands on her apron and squeezed Sansa’s hands.

With all the smells of stew and bread swirling through the kitchen, Sansa decided she was hungry. Aida sat her down on a tall stool by the kitchen counter and served her a thick beef stew and fresh white rolls. “We don’t have the supplies to feed everyone like this for more than a few days,” Aida admitted, “but we wanted to feed those boys good and proper today, after what they’ve been through for us.”

Sansa ate gratefully, and listened attentively as the kitchen staff spoke to each other. She picked up on the running of the hotel, and the staff wondered if Sansa planned to reopen as a hotel again after the war. Finally, Sansa admitted – confidentially – to Aida that the knock to her head by Ramsay had left her concussed and confused. She could not even remember properly where her own room was…

Aida stood across the kitchen counter from her with a sympathetic smile on her face. “Love, do you want the room you shared with…”

“No,” Sansa answered firmly.

“Of course not, no,” Aida nodded, all understanding. “What about your mother and father’s room? No one has slept there since they passed - it’s old-fashioned, as they liked it – but it might suit you?”

Sansa nodded, “Yes, and could you have someone bring my things into the new room?”

Aida called over a young man and a young woman. The girl guided Sansa to her parents’ old bedroom, which turned out to be the same room she remembered from her childhood. Sansa stood at the heavy old door and waited for her two suitcases worth of clothing and possessions to be delivered from the room she’d briefly shared with Ramsay. Sansa remained in the corridor until they had left her things on the floor, put sheets on the bed, and bid her good night.

Then she stepped through the door, pushed it shut and bolted it. When she turned around to face the room, her heart nearly stopped. The bones of the room were unchanged from her time to this. No false walls, only castle stone. A large, wooden, four-poster bed – not their original, and this one had a modern mattress, but certainly similar – the same balcony, the same view, the same windows and original doors. She fancied she could almost smell her mother’s rose water in the warm air.

Crying and sniffling, Sansa opened the wardrobes and chests. The wardrobes were empty. The chests held some folded clothing, all modern, that must have belonged to this version of her parents. She didn’t recognise the suits and skirts and blouses, though most of her father’s clothing was black or grey. She smiled. Some things didn’t change.  She pulled out a modern leather jacket with a Stark grey woollen lining. She breathed it in, but it only smelled of the lavender and cedar left in the trunks to ward off moths.

“Robb, why have you done this? It’s like losing them all over again,” she sniffed. No one answered.

Finally, at the very bottom of the trunk, she found what she’d wanted. It was wrapped in fine linen and then gauze, and cedar shavings fell from the package as she unwrapped it. Sansa knew to look for the sprigs of lavender and petals of rose that were tucked into the fur lining, because she had wrapped this piece herself.  It was still soft and whole and beautifully preserved, as though it had been tucked away months ago, not uncountable years. Her mother’s cloak.

Sansa fell utterly apart.

…

Well past midnight, Stannis kicked open Tormund’s door and dragged him from his slumber. Stannis ignored the naked woman in Tormund’s bed in favour of throwing his clothing at him and ordering him up and out of the room. Tormund gave Aida a kiss on her head before heading throwing on his clothes and heading out.

Sometime in the night, it seemed, the Stark girl had gone missing. There was no trace of her in the grand room where the staff had left her.

With Stannis, Jon, Sam, Edd, Gendry and Davos all searching the castle for the missing girl, Tormund headed without a second thought into the gardens. He couldn’t say exactly why, but something about Jon’s little sister sang to the oldest part of his Wildling soul. He hadn’t really thought about himself as a Wildling before the Nazis came, before the Boltons. He ran a hardware store in a village in the Gift, far to the north of Winterfell. But there was nothing like someone hating you for what they claimed you to be, to make you reconnect with your ethnic past. The Nazis hated the Starks, and they hated the Wildlings. And when they laid waste to his village, Tormund rediscovered that he had a people. And Sansa, somehow, was one of them, he felt sure.

He searched the gardens for 20 minutes before he found it. Just beyond the last of the ornamental Northern grasses and flowering borders lay a small wood. He could make out the flame-red leaves of a weirwood tree a hundred yards in, down a disused path. He could almost hear the children of the forest whispering to him in a language he thought he’d forgotten, telling him exactly where to find Sansa Stark.

She was curled around the trunk of the weirwood, fast asleep, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak of heavy brocade in moss green and blue. Tormund knelt silently at her side. The fur looked to be grey wolf pelt.  Her eyes were rimmed in red and she seemed tense, even in her slumber.

“You come to tell your troubles to the Old Gods, girl?” he whispered, not wishing to wake her. It seemed to him that she hadn’t slept, not since long before the battle, and now she had come to the gods to let her rest, however uneasily. The Children had brought him to find her, settled on the spring-warmed earth of this godswood.

“I’ll go fetch Stannis to you, shall I?” Tormund grinned softly. “He’ll be wanting another chance to carry you back to your bed.”

…

Stannis’ boots squelched in the mud as Tormund led he and Davos all the way out through the formal gardens of Winterfell and beyond, into a forest, and finally to this singular tree with autumn-red leaves and white bark at the furthest reaches of the place. The tree seemed to have a face carved into it. Stannis knew it as a godswood tree immediately – he knew his Dragon Age history - but that religion had died out more than a thousand years ago, and weirwoods hardly held any importance for either Jews or Catholics. Why was Sansa hiding here?

Tormund knelt in front of the tree, and while Sansa slept on, he closed his eyes and communed with his Northern gods. The indigenous Northmen had never taken up Judaism or Christianity, but kept to their pagan religion. There was no snow around the tree, the ground here close to an underground hot spring. Davos waited motionlessly and Stannis tapped his foot impatiently until Tormund, his prayer completed, crawled the few feet to Sansa and gently shook her awake.

“Did the old gods listen to you, girl?” he asked sympathetically. “I’m sure they’d do anything for such pretty lady.”

Sansa pushed herself up on one arm, the ancient cloak falling from her shoulders as she did so, her hair the colour of the weirwood leaves cascading over her shoulders.

She was caught unawares, still bleary from sleep, but she shook her head. She rubbed her hand unconsciously over the bark, and offered: “Old Nan used to come here, and bring me with her, when I was a girl. I come out to remember her.” She fingered the cloak she wore. “This was hers. Passed down to her through generations of Starks.”

Stannis recognized this statement for the lie that it was, but he had no idea why she would lie about the godswood or the cloak. This was her childhood home, and perhaps this spot held some familial significance for the Starks. Funny Jon hadn’t thought to check here for his sister.  Sam had said she was mildly concussed from the blow to the head, but right now she was glaring back at him clearly enough. He bent down, preparing to carry her back to the castle.

“I am quite capable of walking, Field Marshal, thank you,” she clipped, using Tormund and the tree to pull herself to her feet. “I do not wish to encourage any further gossip.”

Gossip?

“Gossip?” he asked, looking between her and Tormund. Tormund looked uncharacteristically guilty. “What nature of gossip?”

Sansa just clasped fixed the heavy, silver clasp of the cloak over her chest and began walking, albeit slowly, towards the lights of the castle. Davos fell in step next to Stannis, a few paces back from Sansa, Tormund at their backs. Davos reached for diplomatic explanation: “Some of the men have been saying, sir, that you are rather taken with Miss Stark. It’s idle words, based on you carrying her back to her tent the night before the battle.”

Tormund felt the need to clarify more bluntly, in a voice just low enough not to be heard by Sansa. “What they’re saying is that you’re looking to fuck Jon’s pin-up of a sister. And they’re basing it on the fact that every time you look at her, you’re three-quarters of the way to drooling.”

Stannis stopped in his tracks and turned full to glare at Tormund, then at Davos. “That sort of talk is outrageous, and disrespectful of Miss Stark.”

“But you do want to fuck her?” Tormund persisted.

Stannis stared incredulously at the Northman, then at Davos, who looked unfazed and frankly curious about Stannis’ answer. He turned his back on both of them and stalked off after Sansa. At the edge of the gardens, just in front of the castle, they met Sam and Edd.

“Sansa!” Sam cried, hugging her gleefully. “You all right? I’ll go tell Jon you’ve been found safe. He is flinging open every door in the castle, convinced some soldier had taken you…”

Sansa paled, and a pointed look from Davos shut the doctor up. “I’ll go find Jon,” he mumbled, and retreated.

Sansa looked tired again, or perhaps fed up. Stannis stepped up to her and decided, gossip or no, that he should escort her back to her rooms. They were both recovering from injuries, and surely no sensible onlooker could think that he was planning to … well, do what Tormund had suggested. She took his offered arm and turned to bid goodnight to Edd, Davos and Tormund with precise courtesy. Once her back was turned, though, all three men gave Stannis what could only be described as encouraging looks. He ignored them, huffed slightly, and led Sansa into the castle.

“I have changed rooms, field marshal, if it please you,” she said quietly, in her quaint speech pattern. She led Stannis up a sweep of carpeted stone stairs and down a long corridor lit only by bare bulbs. This part of the castle looked home to larger rooms in the hotel. In the centre of the corridor, an alcove gave onto a thick wooden door, with heavy iron fittings. Sansa pushed open the door, and Stannis drew in a surprised breath at the room. It was unmodernised, with original stone walls hung with carefully preserved tapestries. An antique, ornately carved four poster bed dominated the room, alongside dark wooden chests and wardrobes. The light fittings were modern, however, and the windows double-glazed like the rest of the castle. A comfortable balcony over looked the gardens. This must, he thought, be the best room in castle, perhaps the one originally meant for the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.  

“Incredible,” said Stannis, running his fingers down the warm, stone walls. “You can really feel the hot spring water running through the walls. This room hasn’t much been touched by modernisation.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve taken back my parents’ old room,” she said, with a sort of polite chill that suggested she didn’t much care if he minded or not. She sounded very much Lady of the Castle.

“No, of course not,” he answered, stepping back from the walls. He felt like he’d slept for a day, which was more or less case, and more energetic than since well before the battle. High on victory. Celebratory.

“I’ve asked the staff to make up my brother Robb’s former room for you,” she half-yawned, unclasping the cloak with a flick of her fingers. He already knew that, as the staff had led him there when he’d been released from the infirmary. She must not realize the time, he thought. He moved himself right behind her, and slid the heavy cloak from her shoulders, draping it over his arms. “Jon can have my childhood room.”

“Won’t he want his own childhood room?” he asked, confused.

“No,” Sansa said definitively, perching on an armchair next to the bed and preparing to unbuckle her shoes. She leaned forward, then caught herself from tumbling too far forward by bracing suddenly against the arm of the overstuffed chair. “Oh, I think I’m feeling rather dizzy.”

Stannis laid the cloak on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of her without further thought. “Let me,” he admonished, freeing her left foot from her shoe and setting it beside the chair. “Sam said your concussion might continue to affect you for another 48 hours. You really should get into bed and rest.” Sansa was looking at him oddly, but she set her stockinged left foot on the floor and extended her right wordlessly. He slid off her shoe and placed it neatly next to its mate. He stood and extended his hand to help her to her feet. Stannis took a moment to just stand in front of her and admire her eyes, before said eyes flicked towards the en suite bathroom and then to the door to her room.

“I think I’ll change and into bed, then,” she said, and when he didn’t immediately move, added: “Could you let yourself out?”

“Yes, certainly, of course, you’ll need to get ready. I’ll see myself out,” he babbled as she moved to the bathroom door. She stepped through, then turned at the last minute to regard him, still standing immobile in the middle of her room.

“Thank you, Field Marshal, for all you’ve done for me. And for the North. I know you still have all of Westeros to consider, but Nazi rule in the North is broken irrevocably, and that’s because of you. I wish you a good night,” she smiled softly and closed the bathroom door.

“Goodnight, Miss Stark,” he answered quietly. As he turned to leave, he noticed her cloak still in an untidy pile on the bed. He folded it neatly, and made to store it in her wardrobe one his way out. As he laid it at the bottom of the wardrobe, he noticed a small but perfectly rendered direwolf stitched into the lining. The embroidery was finely detailed and the huge wolf seemed almost alive. He drew it up for a closer look: someone had spelled out a name in neat, even stitches that looped and swirled through the wolf’s grey-brown fur: Catelyn Stark.


	6. Truth and Lies

Stannis let Sansa’s door click shut behind him, then paused in the corridor. He walked unthinkingly beneath the low wattage bulbs and the decorative, late Victorian ceilings to his room, 2 doors down from Sansa’s, just past Jon.

Stannis knew of Catelyn Stark. He’d not met her, but if accounts were to be believed, Sansa looked very much like her Tully mother: red hair, high cheekbones, the distinctive blue eyes, tall and slim. But any number of women, he imagined, might match those broad criteria. Could Jon, separated from his sister since before the start of the war, perhaps have been overconfident in identifying her? Might he, possibly, have been mistaken? After all, he had last seen a young girl, and she had returned a woman.

He could not account for it. The real Sansa would have known that the cloak belonged to her mother, not some distant past ancestor. Even if she had never seen that particular cloak before, she would have recognized her own mother’s name.

Why had she fled to a Godswood? Sansa Stark was Catholic, with a Jewish father. Not pagan.

All the things that didn’t add up about Sansa starting coalescing in his mind: her oddly affected speech pattern, as though she was trying to simulate a royal lineage. Her frankly bizarre phrasing at times: Stannis of House Baratheon. Wildling.  Like she’d read about them all in a book, and thought of them all as characters, not people.

And then she’d infiltrated his camp. Convinced both Jon and himself of her authenticity. Sealed it with Myranda… or perhaps that was a bit too coincidental? She brutally murdered a prisoner of war who had been successfully apprehended. What didn’t she want the Westeros forces to find out?

His head hurt thinking on it all. One thing was clear a summer’s morning: Stannis could not trust his judgement when it came to this girl, as desperately as he wanted to believe in her. She had dropped too many clues for him to ignore. Stannis held Jon Snow in high esteem; he respected the man, which is more than he could say about most people he knew. Jon understood duty. He understood difficult decisions.

He would understand, then, that Stannis needed to put the alleged Sansa Stark to the test.

…

“She did what? She cut off his cock? _Sansa_?” Jon stormed through Stannis’ expansive office, the one that Sansa herself had been kind enough to make available to him. “That absolutely did not happen the way you seem to be telling it. Like she – what – tortured and then murdered him in cold blood?” Jon leaned over the desk and stared Stannis down, his hands digging into the wooden desk. “Not Sansa. No.”

Stannis found himself growing angrier by the moment. Each denial from his general only cemented Stannis’ conviction that the woman they had both been taken in by was not the true Sansa Stark.

“It happened, general, exactly as I said it did. Giantsbane and Major Tollett had Ramsay subdued. Sansa got hold of the dagger strapped to my leg and mutilated him before slitting his throat.” Stannis did not lie, and Jon should know this better than anyone.

“And how did she get hold of your weapon? Did my injured, undernourished sister overpower the commander of Westeros military forces?” Jon scoffed. “This is fantasy.”

Stannis avoided answering that question. It did not paint him in an entirely favourable light to say that she had overpowered him by batting her pretty lashes in his direction.

“I have only called you in here as a courtesy, General. Like it or not, it is my duty to investigate Miss Stark for the murder of Ramsay Bolton, who was a prisoner of war at the time of his death. If we ignore the practice of safeguarding prisoners, what will stop the Nazis from taking retribution and murdering one or more of our own people?”

“Stannis, this is not a theoretical discussion on the unwritten rules regarding prisoners of war. You have dragged my little sister from her room under armed guard! My gentle, kind, generous sister, who never hurt a soul in her life.” Jon let go of the desk and stood up straight. “You will release her, sir, and you will drop this insane prosecution.”

Stannis stood up as well, all but seething now. “I cannot just dismiss this case without investigating. I have a duty to…”

“Fuck your duty!” Jon brought his fist down of the desk. When he pulled his fist back to plant it somewhere more useful than Stannis’ desk, Davos leapt forward and grabbed Jon’s arm. Stannis stepped back a pace, utterly taken aback by the violence of Jon’s reaction. Davos wrestled Jon back a few steps before being thrown off. “He raped her. He beat her. Starved her. And you want to punish _her_?”

“I cannot allow her, or you, to bypass the proper military channels and execute a prisoner because he is accused of particularly heinous crimes,” Stannis explained. His point of view was completely reasonable.

“Accused?? You saw yourself what he had done to her! Sam can testify…”

“Capt Tarly _will_ testify, General. Be assured. But even if he did all you say, at the moment she killed him, Ramsay posed no threat…”

Jon snorted out a derisive laugh. “Oh my fucking god, Stannis, really? No threat? Maybe not to you, but he posed an existential threat to Sansa. He intended to kill her, or to sell her to the Lannisters, which amounts to the same thing.”

Stannis hissed through his teeth: “Not while two Westerosi soldiers were holding him back.”

Jon snatched his coat from the back of the chair where he’d flung it when he walked in. “If you pursue my little sister, Field Marshall, I will make you regret it.”

Stannis called to the military police stationed outside his door. “Privates, please take General Snow into custody. He has threatened a superior officer with violence.”

Davos gaped at Stannis, incredulous, while Jon seethed as the MPs took hold of both his arms and locked cuffs around his wrists.

“Escort the general to the cells below the castle.”

Davos shut the door behind Jon’s retreating figure, then turned to Stannis, still standing and breathing hard behind the desk.

“Sir, I must advise you to reconsider this course of action. If Miss Stark is found guilty, the only available option is the firing squad. You cannot mean to execute her.” Davos dropped into the seat in front of him. “Stannis. Stannis, think. You like this girl. Hell, you love Jon like a son, and you’re locking him the cells for an empty threat made in anger, in defence of what may be his last living family member?”

Stannis clenched his jaw and sat back down at his desk. “Another word down this line of thinking, Davos, and I’ll be writing you up for insubordination. Miss Stark may be lovely, and all the things Jon named as well, but I also now know her to be a liar. She was lying about why she was in the woods last night, and the origin of that cloak. She does not seem to know her way around her own childhood home. Plenty about her does not add up. I don’t know why, but it’s enough to paint a different picture of her character. Now show in Giantsbane so that we can take his statement.”

…

Sansa looked on in tears as the two large soldiers dragged Jon away from Stannis’ office in handcuffs. She was sitting outside the office with two tall guards, each easily weighing 100 pounds more than she did, at either side of her chair. Jon forced the guards to a halt in front of her.

“Please don’t worry, Sansa. I’ll figure this out, okay? I will not let anyone hurt you.” He leaned down to plant a quick kiss on her head before the soldiers led him away.

Sansa stared hard at the ground. Jon did not mean his promises to be horseshit. She wished desperately that Winterfell still had a sept, so that she could least go offer a prayer to the warrior for her brother, before she died. She had prayed and prayed for him last night, but perhaps the old gods would not listen to Southron traitor like herself. She could see her own tears dropping onto the lilac fabric of her dress. She tried to stop herself from crying. In her experience, kings had no sympathy nor humanity, and they hated weakness. Crying showed weakness.

But… Stannis had seemed so kind, only last night, offering her his arm, taking her up to her room. What had gone so wrong overnight, while she had done nothing more incriminating than sleep? She’s held his damned hand while they pulled the bullet out of his shoulder! She’d been certain that he liked her.

And now Jon was locked away, as well. All because of her. She should have died that night in the woods. If only she’d died, then at least Jon would be here, the victorious hero of Winterfell’s liberation. She brought nothing but tragedy to her family. All she’d ever wanted was them to be safe and happy, but she’d killed them all, one by one. Her father, mother, Robb, now Jon. Stannis was right to try her, to bring her to justice. Someone should. She was guilty, guilty, guilty.

One of the guards had explained the penalty for murdering a prisoner of war: a firing squad. Would they set her on fire? Jon had said that’s how they’d killed father. There was some poetic justice in that, then.

She sat and waited as Tormund, then Edd, then Gendry, and finally Sam made their way into and then out of Stannis’ office. They all smiled at her as they left, and Tormund even gifted her with a wink. They probably assumed that kings wanted to see a greater justice done, one in which Stannis would accept her bloody revenge on a monster. But Sansa knew better. Justice was going to ride roughshod over her. Very well, then. Let the king have his justice. When King Stannis asked her to account for her actions, she’d be as devastatingly honest as she knew him to be: she’d killed Ramsay, and she’d meant to do it. She’d confess it all, if only he’d spare Jon.

…

Stannis leaned back in his chair and considered the ceiling in great detail. Capt Tarly had just left his office, and his statement matched that of the other 3 witnesses. As Stannis had fully expected, all said that Ramsay had pulled free of Edd and Tormund, that he had thrown himself towards Sansa, and that she had bravely taken Stannis’ weapon and killed him before he could harm either herself or the field marshal. Stannis, they testified, had been weak with blood loss from the bullet he’d taken to his shoulder. He had bravely led the charge to rescue Miss Stark and secure Bolton, nonetheless.

It was a pretty story. Sadly, not a word of it was true.

Davos coughed politely, to get Stannis’ attention. He looked up from his notes. “That’s all of them, sir. Their stories match.”

Stannis looked at him sharply. “Of course they match. They match because they’ve all agreed a perjury.”

Davos met his gaze. He nodded slowly. “I suppose it’s up to you, sir. You either accept their testimony, which will free Miss Stark, or you charge them with perjury and send them to the cells with General Snow, then imprison Miss Stark for murder on the basis of your testimony.” Davos considered his commander carefully.

“Call in Miss Stark, please, Col Seaworth,” he ordered.

Sansa walked in wearing a soft dress the colour of heather. She’d been crying; her eyes were no longer red, but still puffy, and she held herself stiffly, as though willing herself not to break down. She sat in the chair opposite Stannis and smoothed the dress down over her legs, then looked him in the eye.

“Field Marshal, I would like to confess to the murder of Ramsay Bolton. I only ask that you set free my brother, who could not have anticipated my actions, and who only sought to defend his family…”

“That will not be necessary, Miss Stark. I have already sent word to have Gen Snow released. He will be brought here shortly. Provided he can account for his ill-judged words, there will be no further action against him.”

A tear did escape at that, but Sansa quickly brushed it aside. “I am relieved to hear it. Gen Snow played no part in my crime. I know that he holds you in high regard and I would not wish for him to suffer any debasement due to my unforgiveable actions.”

Stannis sat still, listening to her archaic phrasing. She was all poise and grace, condemning herself to him with her back straight and a steady gaze. Stannis had sentenced enough men in his time to know that her composure was singular; most pleaded, or threatened, or bargained.

Davos cut in, his gruff voice almost pleading like it was he was being sentenced himself: “Miss Stark, please, you do not need to offer testimony against yourself. Are you aware of the sentence if you are found guilty?”

Sansa took a breath that masked a little sob. “Yes, Colonel Seaworth. I understand.” She paused, running her hands once again over the fabric of her dress. “But… Jon, he will not come to any harm? My crime was mine alone.” And there it was. Stannis could not piece this woman together, but she loved Jon Snow fiercely enough to allow herself to be dragged in front of a firing squad and executed. No matter what else she said might be a lie, this was Jon’s sister, and no question.

“Miss Stark, you committed no crime.”

Sansa blinked. “There… Field Marshal, I killed Ramsay Bolton…”

“Yes, you killed him in self defence. Four witnesses have just confirmed it to myself and Col Seaworth.”

Davos nodded in the background.

“Field Marshal,” Sansa continued, uncertain. “You know that not to be the case. You were there.”  

Stannis struggled not to squirm in his seat. “That is not my memory of the event, Miss Stark. You don’t recall that Ramsay broke free of Mr Giantsbane and Major Tollett? I’m afraid you had suffered a blow to the head, and thus your testimony, and I mean no offense, but it must be disregarded in the light of the recollections of the five other witnesses on the scene.”

“Five?”

“Yes, Mr Giantsbane, Major Tollett, Private Gendry, Capt Tarly and myself. We all clearly saw Ramsay Bolton break free and lunge for you, and only your quick action saved your life, and likely mine. I am indebted to you, Miss Stark, for your action. My shoulder was injured and I was not able to react quickly enough.”

Sansa sat in silence, her brow furrowed. She did not say anything more, just frowned at him. Then her chin wobbled, and Davos handed her a tissue.

“This matter is closed now, Miss Stark. We shall not revisit it. We do not require your statement to close the case.”

At that, Jon burst into the room, looking every inch as likely to fly into a rage as he had before. He dropped to one knee beside Sansa and pulled her in for a hug. She buried her face in her brother’s jacket.

“Miss Stark is free to go, Gen Snow. Our investigation has concluded that she acted in self defence and has no case to answer.”

Jon gathered up Sansa and she stood, clutched tight against him. She had begun to shiver, and looked angry and confused. She made to speak, but Jon quietly shushed her.

“And you are quite finished threatening my sister?” Jon barked. “This is the second time you’ve tried to condemn her to death.”

Stannis snapped: “I must not be trying very hard, Snow, for here she is, completely well.”

Davos intervened: “General Snow, why don’t you take Miss Stark back to her room? She’s had quite the fright and will not want to see her brother imprisoned - again - for his inability to hold his temper.” Jon marched to the door holding Sansa's hand, and slammed it shut behind him as they left.

Stannis snapped shut the file of witness statements. Davos grabbed it out of his hands and started rummaging through the paperwork.

“Give that here, Seaworth,” Stannis snapped. “What the hell are you about?”

Davos shook the sheaf of papers onto the desk and flicked through them until he found what he was looking for. He picked up a stapled witness statement and shook it his commander.

“This,” he said, his voice shaking, “is at the bottom of the pile. It’s the first account of events, and its yours. You exonerated her before the bloody investigation even began.”

Stannis sighed. “Now not even Cersei can come back at us. Her spies will report the Stark girl crying in the hallway, her brother in the cells for trying to interfere, me plodding ahead with the prosecution exactly as she would expect me to do. The case for self defence is watertight.” Stannis stopped talking and hoped that his tone of finality would shut Davos up, too. He did not need his behaviour dissected, but he could tell without even looking that Davos was going to do just that.

“You lied. You lied _for her_ ,” Davos intoned. “First, you apologised, which God above knows you should do more often, but we both know that you never do. Now, you’ve lied, actually bloody perjured yourself.” Davos lapsed into a critical silence before asking. “What are you planning to do for her next?”  

…

Jon brought Sansa back into her room just in time for her to run for the privy and empty her stomach into the pretty porcelain basin they called a toilet. When her stomach stopped turning over in nauseating loops, she stood and reached blindly for the pull-cord that washed all the evidence down the drain. Still shaking, she sat down to pee, and the last piece of a horrible puzzle fell into place: the toilet paper came away with blood. Sansa barked out a slightly hysterical laugh. Her moonblood, just as Sam and Jeyne had promised. She started crying all over again, this time from relief: she wasn’t in front of a firing squad, she wasn’t pregnant, she wasn’t a prisoner.

Jon knocked on the door to ask if she was all right. She called back through the bathroom door that she was just fine, and would be out in a minute.

She brushed her teeth with the bicarbonate of soda that Brienne had given her, and washed the last of the make-up Jeyne had lent her from her face. She brushed out her hair with an ornate hairbrush she had found amongst her mother’s things, and she straightened the pretty dress she’d found in her own suitcases. Forward Place Sansa had some lovely dresses, even if the styles seems strange.

She stared hard at her image in the mirror. She was still alive, almost unbelievably. A few short days ago, she had been Ramsay’s prisoner. She had walked into the godswood and married a monster.

And now? She’d had her revenge, which she still couldn’t quite believe she’d taken. Ramsay was dead and gone. The seed he’d forced on her had been washed away by Sam’s clever concoction. The castle he’d stolen from her family was now hers.

And Stannis Baratheon, a man who the whole realm concurred was as straight and unyielding as a broadsword and unforgivingly honest, had lied in order to save her from death.

She opened the bathroom door to see Jon sitting on the edge of her bed, concerned and serious. She hugged herself around the middle to keep from bursting, and as she did so, she felt every rib. She was near faint with hunger.

“Jon,” she smiled, “Let’s steal down to the kitchens and have some supper, shall we?”

He grinned back at her. “There won’t be any cakes for you to hoard like when we were young. Sugar’s rationed.”

“No matter. I’m more interested in my brother’s company,” she grinned back. Sansa looped her arm through Jon’s and they headed towards the kitchens together.


	7. Wintertown

“…and Maiva saw her coming out that Wildling’s room every morning this week. Yesterday she had her stockings on back to front, the seam running across her knees!” Jeyne giggled as she applied a second coat of brilliant red polish onto Sansa’s fingernails. “Well, good for her, I say. Aida’s husband died 4 years ago, at the start of the war. He was a flyboy, you know them, and he was as faithful as a tomcat, wandering into the room of whichever woman was willing to open her door and her legs.”

“Jeyne!” Sansa gasped, shocked. She couldn’t imagine Aida, the lovely, motherly cook, spreading her legs for Tormund. Or indeed anybody. They’d all been in Winterfell for two weeks after the battle, and Jeyne insisted that Aida had more or less moved into Tormund’s room.

“I wonder that he doesn’t crush her,” Brienne put in, leaning back on Sansa’s bed with a cup of tea. “She’s a tiny thing and he’s…”

“He’s huge!” Jeyne nodded. “He’s probably huge everywhere. His cock must be the size of a marrow.”

“Jeyne!” Sansa hollered, stifling a nervous laugh. “I can’t believe you are discussing the man’s… the man’s… you know.”

“It’s a cock, Sansa,” Jeyne admonished playfully. She brought Sansa’s fingertips up to her lips and blew gently across them. “A penis. And it is, in all likelihood, enormous. Though I’m not signing up to have a look myself.”

Gilly glanced up from where she was stretched out on a thick rug, rubbing Baby Sam’s sleeping tummy with her red nails, having been Jeyne’s first customer. “Well, Brienne could do the research for us. He’s been looking at her like a steak dinner since Castle Black.”

Brienne set her teacup down on its saucer with a clunk. “I have no desire, honestly none, to see Tormund Giantsbane’s cock up close and personal,” she snorted. “Perhaps Gilly can grace us with tales of Sam Tarly’s tackle.”

“Brienne!” Sansa laughed, appalled.

Gilly smiled knowingly. “Sam puts his tackle to very good use, thank you.”

“Gilly!”

“Sansa!” all three yelled at her, then laughed. Jeyne continued: “Anyway, Sansa, the entire castle knows that Stannis Baratheon wants to store his tackle in your box.”

Sansa stopped laughing and stared at Jeyne with big eyes, then looked at Brienne and Gilly. Both women nodded enthusiastically in confirmation.

“It’s quite sweet, Sansa,” Gilly sighed. “’Miss Stark, let me escort you to your room.’ ‘Miss Stark, might you accompany me to dinner?’ ‘Miss Stark, I have some business about quartering the men in the castle to discuss with you. In private.’ He thinks you’re aces, Sansa.”

Brienne huffed and dropped her voice an octave in imitation of Stannis. “’Miss Stark, let me threaten you with a firing squad.’”

Sansa frowned. She didn’t like being the subject of wagging tongues, and she had done nothing to encourage the king in his pursuit of her. She wasn’t likely to forget in a hurry how she felt in that corridor outside his office, watching Jon being dragged away. She was grateful that Stannis had smoothed over her murder of Ramsay as self-defence, thanks to some creative testimony.

Jeyne patted Sansa’s hand and pointed her to the bed. “Brienne, you’re up,” she called. “And Sansa, you have to sit still for 15 minutes. No knitting! You’ll smudge the polish. And this stuff is like gold dust round here.”

Brienne had just made herself comfortable when someone knocked on Sansa’s door. Sansa shook her head violently. She did not want visitors, not while she was lying on her bed, in her underwear and a bathrobe, and Jeyne in the same. “It must be Baratheon!” Jeyne hissed. Then, more loudly, “Come in!”

Jon stopped two stops into the room and began apologising profusely. Jeyne laughed it off and beckoned him forward. “We’re all decent, General Snow!” she called. “No need to avert your eyes.”

Jon smiled bashfully, and with his cheeks pinker than an army general’s had any right to be, he sat himself next to Sansa on her bed, wrapping one hand around the bed post to keep it occupied. “I have incredible news, Sansa.” Sansa smiled broadly at him and leaned forward, and Jon reached for her hand.

“Don’t you dare smudge her nails, Jon Snow, or you’ll be wishing you hadn’t made it through that battle,” Gilly warned. “Jeyne is very protective of the cherry red.”

Jon snatched back his hands and made do with patting her affectionately on her exposed lower leg. Sansa kept trying to remember that no one seemed to consider that a state of undress in this time. “It’s Bran. He’s alive!”

Sansa bypassed shock and dove straight into unbridled happiness, flinging herself into her brother’s arms. But being sensibly careful of her nails. “How? Where?” she stuttered.

“He sent a telegram from Castle Black. He’s been north of the wall, but now he’s heading down to Winterfell on the next flight, with Shireen Baratheon and Marya Seaworth. And even better: he had word of Rickon. He’d been seen alive some months back.”

“That’s _after_ Theon claimed to have killed them,” Sansa marvelled. She wanted to ask more about it, but she was afraid to let on that she didn’t know what a telegram was. She shut her mouth with a smile before asking if they could send a raven to the Wall. But if Bran was alive, Rickon might be alive, too.

“Now you must come out and celebrate, Sansa! Tell her, Jon. She absolutely must come out to Wintertown with us tonight,” Jeyne cajoled.

Sansa rolled her eyes and returned her attention to her brother. “Are you going into town tonight, Jon? They’ve told me that we’re going… where are we going?”

“A pub called The Crossed Keys, in the centre of the town. It’s a big place, and they are going to have music and dancing tonight.” Jeyne actually sang the last few words in her clear voice.

Gilly stood with Little Sam in her arms and announced that she needed to put him down to sleep and find the babysitter – one of the housekeepers had offered – before she went out. “Come for a pint, Jon,” she encouraged. “Sam’s coming.”

Jon looked convinced at that. “Very well.” He stood and held his arms out for Little Sam. Gilly smiled and handed over the sleeping baby. “You stay and get all dolled up, Gilly. I’ll take Little Sam back to his father.” He leaned over and gave Sansa a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back to pick you up and drive you over. You’re not going into town unescorted with all these soldiers about.” He whispered the last part to her. “See you later, ladies,” he called softly as he carried Little Sam out the door.

Gilly leaned back against the door to shut it, and Sansa’s three friends all let out enamoured sighs. “Sansa, your brother is…” She stared off into the middle distance, trying to think of the right words.

Shaking her nails dry next to Jeyne, Brienne agreed with the wordless assessment. Jeyne nodded, “Yeah, he really is.” They all sighed again. “We must find him someone to ball tonight,” she added mischievously.

“Jeyne!” Sansa snorted, recognizing the meaning behind the term clearly. “Jon doesn’t, I mean, he’s a good man, and he’s always been very sensitive about the consequences of his actions and…”

Jeyne waved off Sansa’s naïve sensibilities and made her way over to Sansa’s wardrobe. “He is a general, Sansa. You can’t think that a soldier like Jon has been alone with only his hand for company all these years. And he just won the most important and decisive battle that Westerosi forces have seen for ages. He needs to get laid. Hell, he _deserves_ to get laid.”

Brienne lay back on Sansa’s bed, her perfect red nails outstretched on her stomach. “Well, that’s Jeyne’s evening sorted, then.”

Jeyne laid out half a dozen dresses from on the bed beside Brienne and Sansa. “So, Sansa, what colour does Jon like?” Forward Place Sansa had not been one for bright Spring colours, it seemed. The range of deep wine colours and blues and greys dominated the selection. Sansa looked at the dresses and thought, I actually know the answer to her question about Jon’s preferences now. Over the last two weeks, she and Jon had met up every night to sneak into the kitchens for late night snacks. She found out about so much that she’d missed as a child, when she blindly followed her mother’s lead and ignored the bastard son.

“Blue,” she said with a smile. “The colour of winter roses.” Sansa knew Jon had someone he was interested in, but she hadn’t asked him directly.

Jeyne picked up a rich blue dress with a fitted waist and a full skirt that came down to her knees. It had tiny white flowers woven through the thick fabric. She tossed her robe to the side and stood in front of the mirror in her bra and knickers and thigh-high stockings, then stepped into the dress. “What do you think, Sansa? Is this brother-stealing material?” Sansa’s eyes went wide. Jeyne hadn’t just been doing nails while sitting at her vanity. Her shoulder-length brown hair curled below her chin and her eyes were rimmed with dark liner. Her lips were coated perfectly in a deep red.

“Wow, Jeyne. Forget Jon – you’ll have the whole of the Westerosi army begging at your feet!” Gilly laughed.

Jeyne eyed herself approvingly in a full length mirror, then turned to Sansa. “Now what colour would the Field Marshal like?” She ran her hand over the dresses, and found a silky dove grey wrap dress with pretty white detailing. “Here, Sansa,” she giggled. “There’s no sense wasting colour on Stannis Baratheon. Grey suits him best.”

…

Stannis nearly tripped over Jon as the general emerged from Sam Tarly’s room and into one of Winterfell’s long corridors. Edd and Davos pulled to a halt near them.

Jon had almost-but-not-entirely forgiven Stannis for making Sansa believe she might be found guilty of Ramsay’s murder. Stannis had refused to explain himself, but he knew that Davos had spoken privately to Jon. Jon had resumed working with him as before, and they had run a successful campaign to flush out the last of the Nazi sympathisers in the region. Mayors, businessmen and politicians from around the North had agreed to meet in Winterfell in a week’s time, to consolidate the democratic Westerosi government’s hold on the region, and to agree the next steps in retaking the South.

“Field Marshal,” Jon greeted stiffly. “I was about to go off in search of you. A number of the men are going into Wintertown tonight to celebrate our victory, and I think it would be appreciated if you came along.”

Socialising. Socialising with the men. Stannis had no desire whatsoever to sit in a bar, surrounded by men drinking and shouting and swearing, with all the noise and pointless chatter and the NOISE. God, no. Then again, this was an overture from Jon, and Davos had told him to mend fences…

“I’m not really one to…”

“Yes, of course, Field Marshal, just as you wish.”

Edd spoke up: “I’m going along as well, Field Marshal, and so is Seaworth, aren’t you, Davos?”

“Wouldn’t turn down a pint, no,” Davos smiled. Stannis made an audible, disagreeable noise at that. Even IF he agreed to go along, he would not be drinking. It softened the mind and the body.

“So, Jon,” Davos continued, “Will your sister be joining us?”

Jon laughed. “Yeah, she and Major Tarth and Nurse Poole were in her room with Gilly, getting themselves all done up. I nearly lost my right arm for coming too close to freshly applied nail polish.”

Stannis vaguely heard the other men chuckling and teasing Jon, but his thoughts all rushed to the same place: Sansa. Sansa “all done up”. What might that mean? What might she wear? What might she wear UNDER what she was wearing? God in heaven, she probably owned some silk stockings. They would come up mid-thigh, be fastened with a little clip…

Stannis coughed and shook his head. “I could drive,” he offered. “I won’t be drinking, and I suppose Gendry will want the night off.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Jon smiled, surprised. “You can take… what… eight in the Rover?”

Stannis nodded, mentally reserving the passenger seat for Sansa, who would need room for those long legs.

…

In Storm’s End, just above the beach where Stannis played as a child, his great-grandmother had planted a garden. Mainly roses, but some exotics: jasmine wound its way round woven bamboo and hung in heavy canopies over soft, bluegreen grass. He would fall asleep there sometimes in the evenings, the scent heavy in his nostrils: the heavy florals lightened by the fresh, salty smell of the ocean beyond. It was perfection.

It was also – almost to a note – exactly the scent wafting from Sansa Stark in the passenger seat of the Rover. She was draped in an elegant coat of soft wool trimmed with black fur, and as he held the door open and watched her settle into her seat, her coat fell open at the bottom enough for him to see a soft, grey dress and her silk stocking. He dragged his eyes away from Sansa’s legs with iron resolve, but not before he’d had a fleeting thought of those selfsame legs wrapped around his naked body.

Christ, he needed a cigarette. While the others struggled and laughed to settle themselves in the back seats, he fumbled for a pack and flipped one into his fingers. If he was smoking and driving, that would safely occupy both hands, leaving neither free to slide under Sansa’s dress. When his search for a book of matches came up empty, Jon leaned forward and handed one to Sansa. She screwed up her brow and tilted the matchbox forward and back. Stannis watched, entranced, as Sansa’s cherry red fingernails flipped the little box over and shook it lightly, bringing it to her ear and listening, like a child with a Christmas present they were not allowed to open. She pushed open the box at last, and picked up one of the matches, very carefully, between two fingernails, almost as if she was afraid to touch it. She held the match by the head, and offered it to Stannis.

Without breaking her gaze, Stannis lifted the match from her fingers, and turned her other hand over. She opened her palm reflexively, revealing the box, and he picked this up as well, trying not to make any sort of contact with her skin. As he lit the match, Sansa followed his movements, memorising the process, and when he ignited it, she drew in a sharp breath and watched the flame with what could only be described as awe. He tried to casually light his cigarette. He tried not to come to the only possible conclusion: Sansa Stark had never seen a match before.

“Okay, we’re all in!” Jeyne called cheerily from the far back.

“Packed like a tin of sardines, eh, Gilly?” Sam joked.

Sansa looked utterly blank at Sam’s comment, then laughed, just a second too late, when everyone else did. Stannis turned his gaze to road and turned the key in the ignition. She’d never heard of a tin of sardines, either.

…

Stannis opened her door as Jon and Jeyne and Sam and Gilly and Brienne and Davos all tumbled from the Rover in a good-natured heap. He offered her his arm rather stiffly, and he was looking at her strangely. Not like men sometimes did, with their lustful thoughts writ large across their features, but like she was a complex puzzle that he wanted to solve.

This might have disturbed her. It should, she admitted later, have disturbed her, put her on her guard. But one thing washed all other thoughts out of her head.

Music. That music. Notes played on instruments that she knew without looking she had never seen before. She’d never heard those noises before, that tone, rhythm, melody. It was a wonderful cacophony, loud and brash and happy. Everyone except herself and Stannis was smiling and laughing and ready to have a good time, responding to the music like one of Sam’s potent drugs. Jeyne was leading Davos in a little dance as they made their way to the front door of the inn.

Pub. It was a pub. Get the vocabulary correct.

It was a good thing that Stannis was leading her, because she was so overwhelmed that she paid no attention to where her feet were going. She forgot for a moment to put on the same mask that everyone else wore: happy and excited for the evening out. Sansa was thunderstruck, and she knew that she probably looked it.

The front of the pub was strung with little electric lights, hundreds of them, bright and twinkling in the dark night, yet somehow they didn’t banish the darkness. They enhanced it, made it seem inviting and warm and magical. The pub itself heaved with people and seemed to shake under the weight of the men and women spinning and twisting to the rhythm of this unbelievable, overpowering music.

She tripped over an uneven floorboard just inside the door, righted herself against Stannis’ chest, and didn’t even notice him as she kept her eyes on the band on stage. The source of the sound that seemed to fill the night. 

“Miss Stark, are you all right?” Stannis asked.

“Huh?” Sansa blinked twice before she realized that she was gripping Stannis’ arm far too tightly in her attempt to take in everything at once. “Oh!” She let go of his arm at once. “I’m sorry!”

“Is it too loud for you?” he continued, leaning in slightly, raising his voice above the band.

Sansa shook her head, making light of her reaction: “Yes, it’s just… a lot.” She had to ask someone, and he was right here: “What’s this type of music called?” He looked at her critically. Oh, by the Seven, she should not have let that question slip out of her mouth.

“It’s swing. Do you prefer something less…”

“Oh no! I like it. I love it!” She nodded enthusiastically. “Do you like swing?”

“I do,” Stannis admitted slowly. “I prefer jazz and classical, though.” Neither of those meant anything to her, but she nodded noncommittally.

Sansa refocussed on the room around her. She saw Jeyne in the distance, waving to her from a table near a wide, open semicircle where men and women were dancing together in the most scandalous… Septa Mordane would die all over again, seeing this.  The men were all in their smart uniforms, the women in bright, floaty dresses that lifted high over their knees as they twirled and swung their hips. Sansa blushed.

Perhaps she could have Jon teach her what to do, or Jeyne, without giving away that she had no idea what was going on. How would she account for a lack of dancing skill? Jon had told her that as a child he remembered her loving dancing. Maybe she could…

“Miss Stark?” Oh, right, the king. He was still here. “Shall we join the others?” He indicated Jon, who was pulling chairs and tables together for their group. “I could check your coat for you, first.”

Sansa looked down at herself, still wrapped tight in a heavy winter coat she’d found in Forward Sansa’s wardrobe. “Yes, thank you.”

Stannis motioned for her to turn around, and she obeyed without thinking, shrugging the heavy material off her shoulders and into his hands. Her dress was silky and shone under the warm lights. She couldn’t help giving a little turn, to see the light bounce off the fluttery, flowing skirt. She smiled at the king. “Thank you.”

“I’ll escort you to the table, then check your coat,” he rumbled, and his voice seemed to have dropped an octave, but it made it easier to hear over the treble of the song playing at the moment.

Jeyne patted a seat as she and Stannis approached. Sansa noticed the crowd part whenever they saw that Field Marshal Baratheon was attempting to pass. The soldiers were drunk and eager, stammering their congratulations on the victory to their commander. He only grunted hasty responses, then moved on, his hand on her lower back guiding her through the revellers.

The music pounded up through the floor, through the soles of her heeled shoes, through her flesh and bone.

“I have missed this music!” Jeyne boomed, jumping to her feet as Sansa sat. “Edd Tollett! Come dance with me!” Edd smiled and held out his hand, pulling Jeyne in an elegant, arcing move onto the dancefloor.  Jon stood and announced that he was getting drinks, and he called to Jeyne as she spun away. Edd asked for ale, and Jeyne for a Coca Cola. So Sansa asked for a Coca Cola, too. It couldn’t be too awful if Jeyne was having it. 

Jon left, Sam and Gilly disappeared onto the dancefloor, Tormund cornered Brienne for a conversation conducted at a volume that made the music pale in comparison. Brienne looked offended by every word that left his mouth. And Stannis returned, helping Jon pass around the drinks, then sitting next to her. She noticed that she was starting to think of his, every so often, as Stannis.

…

The pub was packed, their seats all wedged tightly together. Stannis edged his way over to sit next to Sansa. She was wearing a silky grey frock that skirted over her curves. He took a sip of his drink and set it on the table in front of him.

“What are you drinking?” she asked, her head cocked to one side and her focus on his glass.

“It’s just soda water, with some lemon,” he shrugged. “I don’t drink alcohol.”

She didn’t respond at all to his comment about drinking. Instead, she whispered to herself, “Bubbly water?”

As she continued to look quizzically at his drink, he wordlessly pushed his glass across the table to her. She wrinkled her nose once the glass was against her lips, and pulled back after the smallest sip, blinking at the contents of the glass. She leaned forward and almost pressed her nose to the side of the glass, eyes wide, watching the bubbles rise up through the liquid. A drop of condensation clung to the end of her nose and startled her. She laughed that self-conscious laugh again and brushed away the droplet, meeting his eyes fleetingly.

Stannis couldn’t take his eyes off her. He added this to the list of things that Sansa Stark seemed unaccountably awed by: radios; the BBC; matchbooks; swing music; and carbonated drinks.

It was like she’d been locked in a cage for most of her life and…. Oh. Oh god. Stannis felt sure his face must be draining of all colour. Because Sansa approached every situation like she’d just been set free, blinking in wonder at the world around her, and… maybe she had been. What the bloody fuck had Joffrey and Cersei done to this girl?

…

“Have you tried your Coca Cola?” Stannis asked evenly, nodding towards the drink Jon had bought her, still siting untouched at her elbow. She knew that Jon wouldn’t give her anything dangerous, but it smelled strange and tickled her nose disconcertingly, just like Stannis’ drink.

She shook her head. She suddenly wanted to cry. She couldn’t keep up and Stannis could see that and she was _so stupid_. She should just do whatever Jeyne did – that was the plan. Order what Jeyne ordered. Laugh when Jeyne laughed. Drink what Jeyne drank. He was watching her responses like a hawk stalking a mouse, and she couldn’t run away or deflect and she felt the panic building in her chest.

Stannis kept his voice placid. “Not a fan of carbonation? The process has been around for 200 years, give or take.”

“I like it,” she responded, sounding childish and defensive, even to her own ears.

The king had a theory; she could tell. Seven help her, he was going to uncover all her lies and lock her up. She wasn’t sure if it was better or worse now that she knew exactly what a firing squad was. Her palms felt sweaty. “Miss Stark, did Joffrey keep you locked up?”

Well, that wasn’t too far off the truth, she thought. And it would explain her strangeness, some of the lack of knowledge.

“Mostly, yes. And so did Mr Baelish. And Ramsay…”

“Yes,” Stannis said abruptly. “I know about Ramsay. But, no music? Ever? No radio newscasts?  And I didn’t think that anyone, anywhere could avoid Coke.”

Sansa just shrugged. Any proper response might be incriminating. Jon whooshed by in her peripheral vision, laughing and dancing to an upbeat song with a beautiful red-haired woman she’d not seen before. Gilly was trying to manoeuvre Sam into a rhythm. And Tormund had somehow convinced Brienne to twirl him around the crowded space of the dancefloor. Sansa didn’t notice that she was unconsciously tapping her foot to the rhythm until she hear this:

“Would you like to dance, Miss Stark?”

…

That he had asked the question did not shock him too entirely. For two weeks now, hints had been dropped by Davos and Edd and most inappropriately by Tormund. Jon, who must have heard the same gossip as the other men, had remained stoically silent on the matter of Stannis’ interest in his sister. Even Stannis, who believed these things to be no one’s business but his own, knew that his attraction to Sansa was the source of gossip.

The response to his question did set him back, however. She looked terrified. Like he’d threatened her with a capital offence all over again. So he tried a tack he’d not thought to before now, a trick that worked with the animals he’d loved to tame as a child: he smiled and spoke softly, reassuringly: “Don’t worry. I’ll show you how.”

Sansa looked like a Hollywood starlet and moved twice as gracefully. Her long, red hair hung in big, smooth waves all the way down her back, and it was clear that Nurse Poole had applied the cosmetics: soft, deep red lips and long, long black lashes around her stunning eyes. The lustrous dress he’d felt earlier when he led her to the table flowed like water over her breasts and hips, brushing against the stiff cotton of this uniform and he led her out to the dancefloor.

The pace of the song was quick, so he didn’t give her any time to react, just swept her off.  Sansa gripped his hand and arm in shock, her body followed his without any hesitation or awkwardness. He moved a bit more slowly than the song called for, giving her time to catch on. When the next tune slowed down even a bit more, she glided along with his steps with ease. What a shame, he thought, for such a naturally graceful dancer, who clearly loved music, to have been denied this opportunity. He almost pitied her that his basic efforts were her first taste of dancing.  

The music slowed again, to a ballad that required little more than swaying and turns. But when he tugged her subtly closer for the slow dance, he felt her body tense under his hands. He released her immediately, keeping one hand on her back, and pressing only slightly towards their table.

“You ready to try Coca Cola now? I think the worst of the bubbles should have fizzled out.”

Sansa stopped dead in her tracks for a moment, then lifted her ever-watchful face to him, and smiled. Genuinely. All the way through to her – definitely cerulean – eyes.

“Yes. You know, I think I’d like that.”

He pulled out her chair at the table, then had a thought: “I think I’ll get you a fresh drink as well. Then you can compare and contrast.”

Sansa smiled even more broadly, her eyes crinkling up at the edges. Stannis couldn’t help himself; he smiled back. She stepped away from the chair – and himself – and balanced on her toes, looking over the heads of the soldiers and local women packed into the pub. “I might just step outside for some air for a moment, though. I’ll meet you back here?”

Stannis hedged for a moment – he didn’t like the thought of Sansa wandering alone through a throng of soldiers - but he didn’t want to verbalise that, not when she had just relaxed enough to smile at him. Still, he watched her as she slipped through the crowd to the door, brushing every so often against a shoulder or arm or leg in her, mesmerising in her elegant dress. She made it safely to the door, and he could see her through the window, taking deep breaths of the cold night air.

Tormund barreled up to him at the bar, crazed red hair in disarray, his face bearing traces of bright lipstick.. He looked Stannis up and down, then to the Coke in the commander’s hand. Everyone, everyone knew that he never indulged in sugar.

“That for the princess?” he guffawed, and Stannis cringed, then glared. Undeterred, Tormund slapped him heartily on the back: “So, you going to storm yourself another Northern castle tonight, Field Marshal?”

Stannis set the drink down on the bar with a crack, preparing to pound some respect into Tormund’s wild head, when a faint cry made them both stop. They looked at each other for a split second, to confirm that they’d both heard it. Then they threw themselves towards the door, shoving drunk men out of their way, and charged into the street.

…

The cold air and the relative quiet were exactly what Sansa needed. The bar overwhelmed every nerve ending, and the few left untouched by the music, the noise, the singing and drinking and revelling, the light and the heavy fog of smoke, were overwhelmed by Stannis. He had not behaved as she expected. There had been overtures, just shy of apologies, over the last two weeks. They had shared meals together, but always with Jon and Davos and Brienne in attendance, sometimes others. Tonight, though, he seemed much softer, and far more sympathetic. He was not behaving, as Cersei had bluntly put it, a less likely target for seduction than a horse. Sansa allowed herself a giggle at that. Seducing King Stannis. Ridiculous. She wouldn’t even want such a thing. Back in her time, he’d just claim her like property and force her, unwilling, to a marriage bed. She stopped giggling.

“Hey, aren’t you a dame and a half.”

The blood in Sansa’s veins froze at the soldier’s drunken slur. He was young, and shorter than her, but solidly built and easily half again her weight. She looked up to see that she had wandered two buildings away from the pub, lost in her thoughts. Without thinking, she ran towards the pub, but she only made it a few steps before the soldier tackled her, his heavy body pinning her to the snowy ground. He jumped to his feet and pulled her up with him, running his hands over her body. “Can’t have a pretty lady like you all covered in snow.” He pushed her back against the wall of the closed-up shop next to the pub.

She screamed, but it didn’t last long. The soldier crushed his hand across her mouth and hissed at her to shut up, that he didn’t want to have to hurt her. Sansa tried to will away the panic, to keep her wits about her. His grip on her arm hurt, his other tight over her mouth.

When Stannis and Tormund burst through the door of the pub, she let out a sob of relief. Tormund banked right – the wrong direction – and Stannis swept left. It took him only a few seconds to spot her, but they seemed to her to drag for hours. He was brightly illuminated by the twinkling lights at the front of the pub, while Sansa was in shadow. So she could see his face change all of an instant when he spotted her, from something like desperation to an uncontrollable rage.

The king reached the soldier in three long strides and whacked the gun across the back of his head, dropping him into the snow. Tormund dropped his knee into the centre of her attacker’s back and twisted both arms behind his body. Brienne had appeared from nowhere and was frantically asking Sansa where she was hurt, supporting her with an arm around her back. Davos was helping Tormund to drag the downed man into the light by the pub, and Edd and Gendry were holding back Jon, who had already managed to get in several punches to the man’s face and ribs.

Stannis stood completely still in front of her, and she couldn’t look away from his dark eyes. She was still panting in the aftermath of the shock; she just could not seem to get enough air into her body. She didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t stop herself. She reached out for his hand, and once she had a grip on him, she pulled herself out of Brienne’s gentle hug and let the king put his arms around her. She lay her head against his chest and closed her eyes and tried to tamp down her raging heartbeats. She didn’t cry, just kept struggling for air, and she could feel Stannis rubbing circles into her back, instructing her to breathe steadily. He counted, and she slowed her breaths to the rhythm he set, and the panic slowly receded.

The shock of the soldier had been terrible. But what shocked her more was what Stannis had done when he’d seen the soldier. The action had lasted a small increment of a second; she was certain that an untrained eye would never even have noticed. But Sansa saw it clearly. Stannis reached for his left side, before quickly correcting the motion and drawing his gun. He didn’t seem aware that he’d done it.

His left. Stannis was right-handed, and he wore his gun on his belt, on his right side. The action of drawing a firearm was straight down with right hand. Going to the left, across his body, was the action of reaching for a greatsword. She’d seen it often enough; her father, her older brothers, every knight and guard she’d ever known: Stannis had been going for the hilt of a sword. She dug her fingers into the jacket of his uniform and kept her eyes closed tight to block out the electric lights and the smoke and the music. She clung to him like her only connection to her own time.

Because some unconscious part of Stannis Baratheon remembered.


	8. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry for the delay - I really need to stop this silly 'working for a living' thing and just get on with the story. Hope it's okay!

“Robb! Robb, you talk to me. What is happening??” She circled the Godswood, looking for any sign of her brother. The face of the weirwood remained impassive. She shivered in the snow, wearing only her nightgown and mother’s cloak, wrapped tight against the icy wind.

“He reached for a _sword_ , Robb. How is that possible? Does he remember? Because no one else here seems to. He doesn’t seem to. He knows all about this time; he’s not like me.” She stamped her foot on the warm ground by the tree. “Answer me!”

Stannis had driven Sansa home hours earlier, and Brienne had taken her up to her room. She left behind a pill that Sam had hoped would help Sansa calm enough to sleep. Sansa hadn’t taken it. She stayed up, with all the lights off so that no one would check on her, until the whole of the castle slept apart from the guards. She found their efforts to guard her laughable, as she knew every secret passageway in the keep. She snuck out to the godswood in the dead of night.

Sansa now fell on her knees in front of the heart tree and leaned her forehead against the warm, white bark. “Oh, Robb, I know that you sent me here to save me. But I don’t understand where or when ‘here’ is. I feel so alone, Robb. I can’t possibly explain this anyone. They already think I’m crazy. Sam tells me I have ‘combat stress disorder’ and that’s why I don’t know what a phone is. But I honestly do not know! And I can never ask, because it might be something I couldn’t possibly explain not knowing about.” She pressed her lips to the tree. “Please, Robb. Brother, please.”

In the silence, she flopped over to lay on her back and stare up into the leaves. “And now someone will catch me talking to a tree, and they’ll do whatever it is they do to crazy people in 1944. There’s probably a firing squad for that,” she grumbled to the leaves. “They’re all talking about Christmas now. It seems like it’s not far off, whatever it is. And it’s one of those things I can’t ask about. It seems to involve dead trees, from what I can gather from the household staff.” She patted the old weirwood’s crinkly bark. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

She picked herself up from the ground and stared forlornly at the tree one last time, pulling the cloak tight around her against the cold night air. Her hair hung down her back, loose and wild, but looking her purest Stark self did nothing to bring forth her brother.

“Goodnight, Robb,” she smiled sadly at the tree. “Even if you can’t speak to me, even if you don’t hear me at all, it helps, having someone to talk to, someone who _might_ hear.” She thought about all the nights she’d spent in King’s Landing with no one who cared. Here she had her brother, Jeyne, Brienne, Gilly and Sam.

And Stannis. She still wasn’t certain if Stannis’ interest in her was good or ill.

Sansa did not bother hiding on her walk back to the castle. Let the guards puzzle over how she’d slipped out of the room without her knowing. They were, for once, there to protect her and not to imprison her. She hummed an old tune to herself to ward off the darkness of the gardens, which looked peaceful under a layer of snow in the quiet of the night. She was so absorbed in her tune and her solitude that when she caught a glimpse of a tall figure coming out of the kitchen door, she froze in shock. She stood silent for a moment, watching the figure approach, obscured by the backlighting of the electric bulbs in the kitchen. Her only thought was to run, to stay far away from unknown men. So Sansa bolted.

Or tried to. An arm swung around her waist and nearly pulled her off her feet. She tripped over her own feet and the paving stones in the garden, crashing heavily against the man. He had her so tightly that she couldn’t break free, and she felt herself begin to hyperventilate again.

“Miss Stark!” King Stannis, she thought, trying to slow her breathing. “Miss Stark, I’m sorry to frighten you.” He stood her on her feet and took a step away, arms up, hands in clear sight. “I didn’t want you to run into the woods in a terror.”

Sansa clutched her cloak tight around her body and tried to get herself under control. She realized a bit too late that she was staring at him in shock, and possibly some anger.

“Are you hurt, Miss Stark? I certainly didn’t mean to make you fall.” He sounded genuinely concerned.  

She attempted a joke. “I’m used to men bashing me around,” she tried to laugh it off, but even she could tell it hit the wrong note. Stannis’ face went all tough and angry again.

“We have made a public example of the cadet who attacked you,” he snapped, before adding more evenly: “No man in my army will get away with hurting innocent women.”

“Not so innocent, Field Marshal, and you know that very well,” she murmured, looking at her feet, thinking of her own attack on Ramsay.

“Well, it’s a good thing for that cadet that I wasn’t carrying a knife for you to steal. I wouldn’t have stopped you.” Stannis took a step closer to her and took one of her hands in his. “No one is going to hurt you if I can prevent it.” He moved his free hand to her chin and gently tilted her head to look at him. “And I will never hurt you.”

Sansa reconsidered his eyes. The colour now seemed an opaque, very dark blue. She also thought that this was the least horseshit promise she had heard out a man in quite some time. Those two promises were within his gift. Stannis took his hand away from her face, but kept hold of her hand, rubbing his thumb across the top of her knuckles.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?”

“A bit. I came out to the heart tree, just for a walk to clear my head,” she said. Don’t admit to anything unmodern, she reminded herself. She was supposed to be Jewish, or perhaps Catholic. She didn’t know what the difference between the two might be, anyway.

Stannis seemed to understand her insomnia, and didn’t push her for further details of her late night wanderings.

“You liked the music tonight, Miss Stark.” She found herself bobbing her head in agreement even though he hadn’t phrased it as a question. “There’s a jazz club in town – I told you I preferred that music. Might I take you there this evening?”

Sansa felt a big smile bubble up from inside. “Will there be dancing?”

Stannis almost-smiled back at her. “Yes. We can dance, if you’d like.”

Sansa noticed that he still had hold of her hands. Funny that. “Yes, I would like that. Thank you,” she told him sincerely.

“Good. Shall I come to your room at 8 to pick you up.” Again, it was phrased just the right side of a command, but not a question at all. He kissed her hand, then dropped it, and seemed surprised with himself that he’d done either.

…

Jon made his way through the packed dining hall and spotted Davos, Edd and Sam at the far end. He sank into the seat next to Ygritte, clanging his tin dinner tray down and taking more care with his beer glass.

Ygritte put her hand on his back and rubbed large circles over his muscles. “Tough day?” she enquired at his downturn mouth.

He shrugged. “What’s got Tormund in a fit of giggles?” he asked, as Tormund chuckled low to himself.

Edd nodded across the hall to the doorway, where Stannis was speaking in a low voice to Sansa. Whatever she said back to him, just before she turned to leave, seemed to please the commander. He had what could only be described as a smile on his face as he left the hall just behind her.

“He’s taking her out tonight. On a date. Dancing. Just the two of them,” Ygritte grinned more mischievously with each revelation, watching Jon’s eyes go wider and wider.

“You can’t know that,” Jon said.

“I know this because I overheard Sansa asking Jeyne for help getting ready, and then Jeyne squealed the rest so loudly that half the regiment must have heard,” Ygritte retorted. “Don’t worry,” she added with a smile, “Jeyne said she was sorting some extra nice knickers for Sansa…”

Jon’s grip bent the fork he was folding and his wide eyes narrowed to slits. He made to stand up, but Ygritte gripped his arm and pulled him back down.

“Jon,” she whispered, rolling her eyes. “I don’t think our commanding officer is any threat to your sister’s honour.”

“Ygitte thinks that your commanding officer will threaten her honour on December 19th,” Sam put in, all business, reading off a list in front of him.

“What the fuck is that?” Jon snarled, grabbing the paper in front of Sam.

Sam stuttered, “It’s a pool. You know, a bet.”

“We’re betting on precisely how long it will take Field Marshal Baratheon to breach your lovely sister’s defences,” Tormund cackled. Davos hit him across the back of the head.

“Don’t bait the man. Have some respect, Tormund,” Davos said with the most serious voice he could muster.  

“Davos, you’re down for December 11,” Jon accused.

Davos just shrugged in response. “I’ve got more faith in him than Ygritte.”

“I’ve got Christmas Eve,” Gendry added. “Spirit of the season, all of that. Gotta be a winner. Tenner a throw, so the payback’s worth the risk.”

“You should get in on the action, Jon,” Edd grinned.

Tormund nudged Ygritte, who was giggling into her pint of lager. “The general’s already getting plenty of action from this one here,” he chortled in his booming voice. Ygritte raised Tormund a challenging brow, and Jon flushed red.

“My sister would not sleep with a man she’s only known for a few weeks. She’s not that kind of girl,” Jon muttered.

“Oi!” Ygritte shoved him hard in the shoulder, looking affronted. “What kind of girl, General? She’s not a slag? Do you have some sort of problem with girls who have sex with men they’ve only known a few weeks?”

The men’s laughter died down as Jon backpedalled furiously. Ygritte put her hand over his mouth to stop the flow of explanations. “Jon, shut your cute mouth. Your sister is more innocent, but she’s a grown woman and there’s nothing wrong if she wants to have a little fun. She deserves it, all she’s been through.”

Sam nodded in agreement. “Things have changed over the last few years, Jon. All this fear of death, women working in the factories and the fields… the old rules don’t apply anymore.”

Jon shut his mouth in a tight line, unconvinced but not willing to say the wrong thing in front of Ygritte.

“Not like the field marshal’s a rogue or a skirt-chaser, Jon. He’d treat her well,” Edd put in.

“I’ve seen him getting changed,” Davos added in a tone of authority. “He’s got quite a lot to treat her to.” 

While the men all stared open-mouthed at Davos, Ygritte nearly fell off the long bench, laughing. Jon slammed down his cutlery and stomped from the hall in a fury.

“Really, Jon Snow,” she gasped, wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks, “you know nothing.”

…

It was entirely possible, Sansa thought, that this was the best moment of her entire life. She didn’t want to waste too much time considering its competitors, but they all happened a lifetime ago when she was a child in Winterfell. Certainly nothing within the last 5 years came close, except perhaps that first hug from Jon, when she’d escaped Ramsay.

The dancefloor of the jazz club rippled under her strappy red heels as Stannis wound her around to the music. The four man band had been playing for an hour, and she’d barely sat down long enough to finally drink a Coke. (Sweeter than sugar, but too odd with the bubbles. She had wrinkled her nose, and Stannis had look pleased at her dislike for it.) Stannis had begun dancing with Sansa in a fairly formal pose, his hand beneath hers, the other on her back at a respectful distance from her bum. But by now they’d been swaying together for song after song through the smoky, intimate club, and his level of formality had slacked off considerably. No one seemed to pay them any attention; no one seemed to be talking about them. They were just two more patrons in the club, and even if everyone knew their names, no one really cared.

Stannis was not a natural dancer. He was coordinated, he moved to the right rhythm, he was athletic and strong, he never once stepped on her toes. But he lacked the grace and feeling of a true dancer. Even without knowing the music, she felt she outclassed him in this. Her fitted black dress swooshed pleasingly around her knees, and the dramatic silk stockings formed a tempting line up the backs of her legs. She felt vaguely scandalised by her own attire, but Jeyne and Brienne had declared it perfect.

She had to admit, though, his arms felt amazing around her. His right hand had been resting on the swell of her behind for the last few songs, and the left was holding her fast to his body, his fingertips playing in her hair. Her objections to resting her head against the king’s well-muscled chest had disappeared some time back, when he was waxing lyrical about Dizzy Gillespie’s Salt Peanuts.

“What’s this song?” she murmured into this jacket.

“Thelonious Monk. Round Midnight,” he explained. She felt the low rumble of his voice against her cheek. She wished he was a bit more loquacious; she could listen to the timbre of his speech all night in this position.

“That instrument is incredible, the way the sound carries like a voice.”

“You mean the saxophone?”

She leaned back a bit so that she could smile up at him. Even in her heels, he had a few inches on her. “Well I don’t know the name of it, or I wouldn’t have asked.” The king was stroking one hand down the side of her face, distracting her from any further conversation.

“Are you having a good time, Sansa?” He almost stopped dancing, as if the fate of Westeros rested on her reply. He certainly wasn’t breathing. Sansa was in a position to know.

“I am. Such a good time. Honestly, I cannot remember better. Thank you, Stannis, for suggesting this.”

She had not noticed that Stannis had guided them off to one side of the dancefloor, a spot somewhat secluded from the rest of the tavern. Sansa felt hazy and slow, as though time were slowing down to stretch out this moment for her. And why not? She almost giggled. Time had most definitely been on her side lately, thanks to Robb.

Stannis was slipping one hand into her hair at the back of her head. One calloused finger was tracing her bottom lip, and he was looking at her with that same intensity he’d had at the pub. It didn’t scare her this time, because it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t about to ask her any complicated questions that required knowledge of the last 1,600 or so years of history.

Despite her two marriages, Sansa had never been kissed. Plenty of songs, in both her time and this, spoke of kissing. And she could well understand why. Stannis was focussed on her like she was the only thing that mattered in the whole of the seven kingdoms, and everywhere he touched her felt wonderful. She knew she had an inviting smile on her face as he used the hand behind her head to tilt her face to his, and her eyes dropped closed. His lips felt soft and gentle on hers, just like a romantic song. His mouth became more insistent, a light sweep of his tongue along her lower lip, and she opened her mouth for him. He tasted of lemon and mint and faintly of cigarettes and Sansa sighed happily. This felt so good, she could keep kissing him forever, and she silently asked Robb to stop the clocks so that this could go on and on.

Instead, Stannis stopped and pulled away, dropping another soft kiss onto her lips, almost chastely, as he stepped back. Sansa wanted another kiss, but she could hear Septa Mordane in her head, shouting about virtue and honour and, by all the Seven, just basic self-respect; one does not throw oneself at a man. At a king. Like a common whore. You’re already half-dressed in a public place, surrounded by commoners, dancing sinfully close. So Sansa just smiled encouragingly and hoped that Stannis would take the hint.

Stannis didn’t take hints well. He led her back to their table, a hand on the small of her back, pulled out her chair and disappeared to buy her a drink. When he was out of sight, she dropped her chin into her hand and let herself pout. Would he kiss her again if they danced some more? Or… maybe he would kiss her goodnight! That could work. Jeyne had said something about kissing goodnight being a test of a good date. She could have this one last drink, maybe one more dance, then ask to go home.

…

As Stannis waited at the crowded bar for his order, he tried to remember if he’d ever been on a date before. Way back before Selyse, perhaps. But he’d married her just out of secondary school, before he’d even left for the academy. And then? Selyse didn’t like music. Or dancing. Or kissing. Or sex. Or at least, none of those things with him. Not even at first, really. And though he’d shagged Melisandre on numerous occasions, even before Selyse’s death, they’d never gone out anywhere together, first because he wasn’t willing to announce his extramarital affair to the world, and second because he did not want to be seen with Melisandre. She was insane.

He had broken his vow to Selyse. Perhaps he did not deserve someone as young and inexperienced as Sansa.  But he’d never had this chance before: to take into town a beautiful woman and share with her one of his interests. To kiss her, and to see that she enjoyed it, and probably wanted to kiss him again.

She did seem… unusual. Sansa had her wits about her despite the abuse she’d suffered in King’s Landing and then in the hands of the Boltons. He hadn’t asked her about any of that tonight; she hadn’t asked him about his past, either. They’d talked about music. He discovered that she had never been to a film, and he promised to take her to one. He felt like he was introducing her to life.

Halfway back to the table, Stannis stopped in his tracks. Was that it? Was Sansa just grateful that someone was finally willing to show her all she’d been missing? He frowned, catching sight of Sansa’s long hair shining under the soft lights of the club, her red lips smiling at the band, her high-heeled shoes tapping in time with the bass. That made more sense than her actually being interested in him.

Although, although. Those kisses. They were evidence that suggested otherwise. There was nothing for it; Stannis squared his shoulders and continued his path to the table. He’d need to kiss her again, to find out.  

…

They drove back along the long, wooded road to Winterfell in the utter blackness of the early December night. Stannis had all his attention on the road, as the Tarmac, unmaintained and potholed, jolted the Rover. Sansa was cuddled into her seat, wrapped up in a warm fur coat and matching hat, her hands between her knees.

The camp began a mile before Winterfell and spread out in all directions. Soldiers from south of the Neck had been arriving, some in straggling bands and some in large numbers, to join with Stannis’ forces for the inevitable push towards King’s Landing. Stannis tried to push the thought from his mind. There would be no push anywhere for the next month, while the men recovered and he consolidated his hold on the north and on the port at White Harbour. Brynden Tully would be here with his forces before long, itching to take back the Riverlands from Nazi hands.

He didn’t stop the car along the road to greet some of the men, as he might have done had Sansa not been with him. He did not want to expose her to large groups of armed men right now; even in the club, she had been a bit nervous at first of the crowd, but at least a third of the patrons had been women, so she soon relaxed. Stannis didn’t want to push his luck; he had somehow managed to show a woman a good time. Best not to fuck it all up at the final wicket.

The guards on the gates swept them wide open for Stannis, and he parked in the middle of the quiet courtyard. Despite the late hour, Gendry was waiting and practically threw himself at the Rover as it came to a stop. The private had been singularly unimpressed that Stannis had chosen to drive himself tonight, but now he took the keys off Stannis and offered to park it in the stables with the other officers’ vehicles. Still trying to maintain the intimacy of their date, Stannis opened Sansa’s door and took her hand to help her down. They were nearly to the doorway of the hotel when the whine of propellers stopped them both. Stannis’ face broke out in an expression that the men didn’t know he could achieve; it was almost a grin. His eyes found the plane as it arced over Winterfell.

Stannis had forbidden any aircraft over Winterfell; he hadn’t used air power in the battle for the castle as he’d feared it being destroyed in aerial bombing. The only plane authorised to land at the hastily-constructed airstrip a mile south of the castle was the plane carrying Shireen.

He yelled for Gendry to stop the car; he wanted to drive out to meet the plane from Castle Black. He hadn’t seen Shireen for three months, and he didn’t mind admitting that he’d missed his little daughter terribly. He could take Sansa out to the plane: she must be excited to see her brother, Bran. He grinned down at Sansa to explain the plan, but she was staring in horror at the plane making its descent.

Pulling her close, he whispered reassuringly: “Sansa, don’t worry. The landing will be perfectly safe; the pilots are used to night raids far more dangerous than this. Bran will come to no harm. I’m driving out to collect them both. Would you like to come?”

She did not even bob her head in acknowledgement, her eyes never leaving the plane. Jumping back into the Rover, Gendry whizzed them down the dirt track to the landing strip, where Stannis practically dragged Sansa out of the car in his excitement. They stood next to the car, Sansa burrowed into her coat and shifting nervously from foot to foot. When the plane banked sharply and turned to the airstrip, and thus towards them, Sansa let out a shriek, then covered her mouth and tried to look stoic. But as the plane rushed nearer, she gave up the pretence and turned to hide her face in Stannis’ heavy overcoat.

Rubbing her back, Stannis cursed himself. If she’d never seen a match or a bottle of Coke, it stood to reason that she may not have seen an aeroplane, and he felt as if he’d deliberately frightened her. But that truly beggared belief. How was that possible? Was she kept in a room with no windows? Never allowed outside? The Nazi airforce patrolled around King’s Landing regularly. Perhaps she simply was anxious being so close to the landing, with her beloved little brother on board.

When the plane rumbled to a halt about 30 feet from them, Sansa hazarded a glance.

“Is Bran inside that… thing?” Her voice shook.

“Yes, and Shireen. They’ll be out in a moment.”

Even as he said it, a wide door pushed open from the inside. A tall, dark-haired boy of about 16 jumped down from the open hatch, landing heavily in the slush and mud of the runway. The boy – he must be Bran Stark – reached his arms up and lifted down Shireen in a cloud of light blue wool. With her dark hair plaited functionally and her small, worried countenance, Stannis felt a stab in his heart that he truly had abandoned his 8-year-old child. But she was here, safe, and now he could treat her better than before, with more care than before. He strode forward and put his hand awkwardly on Shireen’s shoulder, trying to muster a reassuring smile, as he had done earlier for Sansa. He desperately wanted to crush her little self to him, but he knew he shouldn’t force it. He would need to earn that sort of trust from her. His attempts at reassurance partially worked, though Shireen remained stock still, every muscle tense and her brown eyes alert.

Sansa seemed to forget her earlier fears, and she rushed to her brother, enveloping the tall, rangy teenager in an all-consuming hug.

“Bran,” she laughed. The sound of her joy rang loud and clear to Stannis across the snow. She released him only enough to stand back a pace and look him over. “You’re alive! And so tall! You look just like father, just like Jon.” She pulled him back into a hug, rocking him back and forth. Bran laughed just as clearly and hugged her back just as fiercely. Stannis felt envious of their easy reunion, the tension in Shireen’s face not having faded.

“Look at you, Sansa, the image of our mother. You look so beautiful, sister,” he smiled.

Stannis guided his daughter towards the car and away from the noise of the engines. “Did you have a good flight, Shireen?”

The little girl shook her head and looked close to tears. “No. It was awful. Bumpy and scary.”

Stannis nestled her into the backseat and himself into the passenger seat in the front. He turned to speak to her, his feet his on the ground outside the open door, and suddenly he regretted that he’d lost any sort of physical contact with her. “I’m sorry that you were frightened. But you’re here safe now.”

“I didn’t want to come,” she muttered bitterly. “I don’t want to see some other ugly castle.” Stannis thought that perhaps Shireen couldn’t remember Storm’s End anymore, how beautiful it was against the sea. She had been hauled from one army outpost to another during this war, always somewhere safe, but rarely in one place for very long, and none of them really suitable for children. And after Selyse had died, alone except for Marya Seaworth. Stannis waited as Marya and three of her sons descended from the plane, then went to help her stow their luggage in the boot of the car behind.

“Mrs Seaworth, Davos will be sorry he’s missed meeting the plane. He’s well, waiting for you at Winterfell,” Stannis assured her.

She gave Stannis a bright, uninhibited grin. “Thank you, Field Marshal. I am quite desperate to see him myself.” She stuffed the boys into the car and waved out the open window as it sped off towards the castle.

Bran and Sansa were still talking in whispers near the plane. Whatever he’d said to her, it had a profound impact on Sansa. She stopped smiling and all the colour left her cheeks. She looked like a ghost in her heavy furs, pale against the winter night, her dark-eyed brother still whispering to her. She looked at Stannis, then slowly panned her gaze back to Bran. She turned her back so that Stannis could not guess at her response to the boy. He nodded solemnly and slid his arm around her, leading her back to the car with their heads pressed together, almost communicating without speaking.

At the car, Bran greeted Stannis with all due courtesy, then slipped into the seat next to Shireen. She seemed to like his presence and lay her head against Bran’s arm. Stannis felt another stab of envy. But that was still better than the look he received from Sansa, her eyes full of question and accusation and even fright, as she settled next to her brother. Stannis was just about to reach for her hand, to try and re-establish something of the easy connection they’d had all evening, when a voice called him from the open hatchway of the plane. His back stiffened and rose up to his full height, standing next to the car door. God, no. Anything but this. A tall, statuesque woman slid effortlessly to the ground, buttoned into an unseasonably silky red jacket and high, red heels, her short crimson hair in a sexy wave down one side of her face. She kept one hand on the arm of the smitten private who’d helped her from the plane, and with the other gave a curt, self-assured wave.

Stannis tightened his jaw in irritation.

Melisandre.

…

Bran saw them out the window of the aeroplane. Standing too close together. Stannis Baratheon had his hands on Sansa, his arms around her, and part of Bran wanted to scream at her to shove him away. He had been at the Wall with Shireen for nearly two months, and although he had not met Stannis before the commander departed with Jon and the regiment for the march south, he had heard plenty from Shireen. She respected her father, but she did not feel loved by him, Bran could tell. He recognized Jon’s scars – being denied a mother’s love – in Shireen. But at least Jon had known that Ned loved him, and all of his half-siblings. Shireen seemed to have been fated with two cold parents.

Bran closed his eyes. He could sense Sansa; she was frightened. Was she frightened of Stannis? Had he trapped her, tricked her, forced something from her?

Perusing the other faces in the small cabin, he observed Melisandre. She, too, was watching Stannis with Sansa. Her face was unreadable. Not jealous, as one might have expected. Bran had heard the stories from the soldiers at Castle Black: Stannis fucking the red-haired seductress just days after his wife’s death. No one had spoken a word of it until Stannis was safely hundreds of miles away, but as soon as it was safe to talk, the men told him how some had spied on the field marshal through slats in rough-hewn doors. Bran had heard a level of detail that he’d like to forget.

As soon as the plane landed, he hopped out to find Sansa and they rushed to each other. He let her hold him for a while and he hugged her back; as much as he had closed himself off to physical sensation, this felt good, an echo of the family he remembered and had feared lost. They laughed and said meaningless, happy words of greeting. But Bran spotted Stannis a few feet away, hesitantly standing back from the daughter he had not seen in months, touching her in the most perfunctory way. And Bran seethed. The thought of that cold man having any sort of claim over his warm, loving sister…

“Sansa,” he took her hands, “sister,” she smiled trustingly at him, “please tell me that you are not playing kiss-chase with the King of Westeros.”

…

Gripping Bran’s hand, Sansa willed herself to hang onto the last shreds of her sanity. Bran knew; not just some shadowy memory of an action, as she’d witnessed with Stannis. No, Bran remembered completely. Bran was of her time. And Bran knew that Stannis was … damn it, she’d say it like the men always did… he was _fucking_ that sophisticated slut with the dyed red hair.

There, she’d said it to herself. Jeyne would be proud.

He was taking her out for drinks… but he was the king. He was kissing her with the music and the lights and sweetness in her head… but he was the king. Only a few weeks, just a few short weeks, and she was already forgetting Robb’s warning, that everyone was exactly as they were in her time. And what she knew of Stannis was that she should stay far, far away from him. No good came of speaking with kings more than absolutely necessary. One did not take them up on their horseshit offers of dancing and jazz clubs.

She really, truly was precisely as stupid as Joffrey had always told her.

Every time Stannis turned in his seat to look at her, a flicker of a smile wanting to break through his serious expression, Bran glared at him. Little Shireen had shrunk so far into the car’s upholstery that she might disappear. Sansa decided to focus on the child, and spent the short ride back telling her about Winterfell’s warm walls, and would she like to see the gardens tomorrow? Shireen nodded, but said nothing.

When they emerged from the car this time, Stannis opened Shireen’s door and helped her out, and Gendry opened Sansa’s. Bran caught his sister about the waist and pulled her close.

“Sansa and I will want to catch up, Field Marshal,” he said flatly. “I am sure you understand. I expect we will see you tomorrow at some point.” Then Bran leaned down to hug Shireen. “G’night, Sheera. We’re home now, okay? No more planes and no more running.” Bran smiled at her, and Shireen managed a little smile back at him. Sansa squeezed the little girl’s hand and invited her again to explore the gardens tomorrow.

“Goodnight, Field Marshal,” Sansa added, not meeting Stannis’ eyes. “I will make sure a room is prepared for Melisandre. I already arranged to move Davos to larger quarters, so that his family can be together, but I did not expect that woman.” Sansa tried and failed to keep the accusation out of her voice. 

She and Bran walked in silence through the much-changed walls of Winterfell. “What in the seven hells happened to this place?” he hissed to her.

“It’s a hotel, apparently. Like an enormous inn,” she shrugged. “Though now it’s just billeting soldiers, like the old days.”

“You mean our days,” Bran corrected.

With a sigh, Sansa stopped at the door of the room she’d prepared for Bran. “I don’t know, Bran, I really don’t.” She opened the door and showed him inside. “And you know what? The last 24 hours or so have been rather confusing. Do you mind if we save the forward jump in time until tomorrow? I do not have the mental capacity for it right now.”

Bran pulled her in for another hug. “Sansa,” he breathed, “I am so happy to see you again, no matter how it’s happened. Of course we can talk tomorrow.”

She gripped his arms as she stepped back, then ran her hands over her skirt twice. “I am so happy to see you, too, brother. Tomorrow, we’ll talk with Jon, okay? Though, he doesn’t know. Of our time, I mean.”

Bran smiled kindly. “Until the morrow. We can break our fast together.”

Sansa stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Bran, how is it that you’re walking? Can you walk in our time, too?”

“Modern medicine, Sansa, and a series of life-changing surgeries that would have happened in this time, but could not in ours. No, I cannot walk in our time.” Sansa considered this for a moment, then nodded gravely and shut the door behind her with a soft, “Sleep warm and well.”

In the corridor, Sansa leaned against the door for several minutes, finally summoning the will to stumble towards her own room. It was late now, and much of the castle slept. She had stopped on her way up to wake a housekeeper to direct Melisandre to a room far from her own. By now, Sansa couldn’t see a thing, and she had to feel for the handle of her door. It took her a moment to realize that she was crying and it was tears obscuring her view. She put her back to the wall and crumpled into the carpeted floor of the hallway. She decided to just sit there and cry for a moment, as no one would have cause to venture this far down the corridors at any time, and especially not this time of night.

She did not know how much time had passed before Stannis was kneeling in front of her, brushing away her tears with thumbs, his big hands around her face. When she said nothing to him, just stared at him through her tears, he slid an arm under her shoulders and lifted her to stand next to him. Then he opened the door to her room and more or less carried her through it. He sat her down on the edge of her bed and then sat himself next to her, holding her hands and brushing away the tears as they appeared.

Did _no one_ in this time think it inappropriate for an unmarried man to be in a lady’s room, alone?

“Sansa,” he said softly. “Our evening was interrupted, even if it was for the best of reasons.”

Sansa scooted a more discrete distance from him, but he simply hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her back, closer than she was to begin with. Sansa huffed in exasperation.

“You should not be in my room.”

Stannis looked genuinely puzzled. “Why ever not?”

“It is not proper!” she insisted. “A man and a woman should not be alone in a room together before marriage. People  might talk.”

He gave her an odd look. “Sansa, it’s nearly 2am. No one is around in this part of the building.”

“That does not make it better!” Then her eyes went wide with realization. “You mean there’s no one to hear me if I cry out?”

Stannis bit back the urge to interpret that last comment as sexual innuendo. “You’re in no danger from me. You know that I would never force you to do anything you didn’t want to, right? Because I would never do that.”

“Fine! I want you to leave, and sitting here with you on my bed in the middle of the night – alone – is something I do not want to do. And you are forcing me to do it! Now let me go!”

Stannis took his hands off her, but didn’t move away. He held her panicked gaze with his own resolute one. “I will go after we have discussed two important topics. First, Melisandre.”

Sansa nodded tightly. The name drove into her gut like a knife; Bran had told her exactly who Melisandre was and exactly what the king had been doing with her. “Your mistress.”

His jaw tightened and his spine straightened. “She is not my mistress, Sansa. I will admit to having a relationship with her in the past, but that ended months ago, even before I left Castle Black. Which she knows, and which I have reiterated this evening in case she was in any doubt about the situation.”

Sansa shrugged. Really, it was not her business who Stannis… well, who he did _that_ with.

“Do you believe me, Sansa? I would not lie to you.” His dark eyes narrowed when she didn’t respond right away, instead trying to cast her gaze about for a safe object to focus on. She did not want to speak to him again. After having felt absolutely magical this eveing

“Very well, you are not promised to Melisandre. What’s the second topic?”

Stannis slid his hand very slowly over the thick duvet on her bed, seeking out her hand. He gave her ample opportunity to pull away, but she let him take her hand again, and turn it over between both of his. He silently stroked his thumbs across the palm of her hand. The sensation was exquisite, and Sansa found that she had no desire to make him leave. Not encountering any protest, he slipped his arms around her waist again and pulled her close.

“The second topic,” he dropped his forehead gently to hers and encouraged her to look at him. “We never had an opportunity for a goodnight kiss.” Somehow the hand holding his had disappeared from her grasp and reappeared at the back of her head, lightly combing through her hair. “I meant to ask you, Sansa, if you might like a goodnight kiss.”

Sansa meant to push him away, to refuse him, to tell him to take his cheating, untrue, all-powerful, kingly self off her bed and out of her room. But his eyes held hers with an intensity that brought back the jazz club, how lovely he had felt, how safe and gentle and now there was a tingling feeling in a part of her body that was demanding that she find out more about this promised kiss.

“I might,” she whispered. He tilted her head just a touch, and his lips were on hers again, pressing over and over against hers, with only the softest pressure. In no time at all, she was opening her mouth for him without any further encouragement, sighing happily when his tongue began exploring between her lips. The grip on the back of her head had tightened and his hand at her waist was now stroking up and down the side of her body, lingering at the underside of her breast, until on one pass he deftly brushed a thumb across her nipple. The sensation set off a flood of want inside her, and she found herself pushing herself into his hand and his chest, not quite sure where to take this sudden desire.

Stannis pulled away by degrees, kissing her lightly again, as though not quite able to stop himself entirely. He took her face in both of his hands and pressed his forehead against hers, as they had at the start. “Will you let me take you out again tomorrow?”

“More jazz?” Sansa sighed.

“I have no idea if anyone’s playing tomorrow, but I’ll find more music for you if I have to hire a band myself, as long as you say yes. It will have to be late, though, I want to spend the day and evening with Shireen.”

Sansa smiled against his lips. “Yes, then.” She rose with him as he stood. He still had hold of her.

“Goodnight, Sansa,” he rumbled in a hushed tone. She just blinked in response and let him go, sitting back down on her bed as he shut the door behind him. Sansa lay back in the blankets and allowed herself a heartfelt laugh. Tomorrow she would worry about all that it meant, and she would talk it over with Bran. Just for one night, though, she wanted to be simply happy.


	9. Negotiations

Sitting on her parents’ bed, in her parents’ room, Bran remained emotionless. The anger of last night was gone, like a door slammed shut on a part of his soul that she would not see again.  

He’d told her his thoughts: that this place was an illusion based on a real future. Bran could still see events happening here unfolding as though in the Dragon Age. He explained the flashes he’d had of the Battle for Winterfell: he could see Jon, sword in hand, cutting through Bolton footsoldiers with Longclaw, covered in blood and mud and exhausted to his bones. Stannis, in full armour, shot with an arrow through the shoulder but pulling it free himself and still racing on horseback to save Sansa. Sansa was wearing a long, elegant, ill-fitting gown – borrowed? – her head bleeding, frightened and angry, and Tormund a blur of fur and ginger hair as he tackled Ramsay. Sansa, vengeful and fierce, ripping Stannis’ knife from his boot and then slaying Ramsay herself.

“So you think we are all still living in the Dragon Age, and that none of this” – she waved vaguely towards the modern en suite – “is real?”

Bran sighed. “It feels real. I mean, I can walk. Corrections have been made to compensate for this new timeline. And people’s behaviour has changed. I have felt numb, cut off from all emotion, ever since I went north of the Wall and lost Jojen and Hodor. I’ve seen so much pain… I saw, I’m sorry Sansa, but I saw your wedding night. I saw Theon there. I saw what Ramsay did to you. And all that Joffrey and his guards did before that.”

Sansa held her countenance firm, however shocked she was. She wanted to believe that all witnesses to her rape were dead, so that she could forget it had ever happened.

“I have seen so much pain – yours, Jon’s, Robb’s, mother’s, father’s – and I didn’t know how else to live with everyone’s suffering, except to stop myself from feeling it. But last night, I saw you with Stannis, and I felt a burning anger.” He stopped himself and calmed. “I am not myself, is what I’m saying. I’m more open to emotional reactions here.”

Sansa supposed she felt differently too – namely she felt emotions other than despair and loneliness. She still had a vivid memory of Stannis’ hand on her breast last night in her room, and caressing her bum in the jazz club. Her friends introducing her to hot chocolate. Jon walking in the garden with her, laughing and joking.

“And Stannis Baratheon – Sansa, you have no idea what that man is capable of. If we were back in our time, he wouldn’t have thought twice about demanding that Jon hand you over as a spoil of war for taking the North, then forcing you into a marriage bed and siring some heirs on you. He would have taken Ramsay’s head from his shoulders and then taken you, whether you willed it or not.”

Sansa didn’t want to feel guilty about what she’d done with Stannis. Not with the taste of him still so present. “But he’s not like that here. He’s not mentioning marriage, or heirs. I don’t even know if he wants more children,” she defended. “And he wouldn’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do,” she parroted his words from last night.

Bran still looked concerned. “Stannis wants the Iron Throne, Sansa. He wants a fertile young wife to produce a royal litter of sons, who will dutifully stand in line to rule after he is gone. Is that what you want? To be back in the Red Keep with the schemers and the traitors and the power-hungry, lawless nobles? To live forever away from your home? To be brood mare to a cold man on a colder throne?”

Sansa threw up her hands. “There is no Iron Throne, Bran. Not here. Women have jobs, and Jeyne and Brienne keep telling me they have rights. And Stannis… he’s not what they made him out to be… coldly just and single-minded about his duty to the realm. That’s not all there is to him.”

“He threatened to give you back to the Lannisters. He threatened to execute you,” Bran said quietly. “I think you should reconsider how close you have let him come to you.”

“Now who’s giving me orders, Bran?” she stropped. “I am going out with him again tonight. He’s teaching me about modern music and dancing.” _And kissing_.

Bran tapped his hands against the arms of is chair, not displaying any sign of last night’s temper. “It is your decision, Sansa. I’ll not stop you. Back in our time, your cooperation with this marriage would not have been sought, and Jon would have been powerless to stop it if Stannis set his mind on heirs with pretty blue Tully eyes. But we could keep you away from him, push someone else into his path.”

Sansa dropped to the bed. “That’s all I am? A title and a womb.” She sank into herself. “I mean, I’ve always known it. Joffrey, then Tyrion, then Littlefinger, then Ramsay… they all made it perfectly clear.”

Bran hugged her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sansa. You are so much more: caring and hard-working and loyal and loving and talented. At least this Stannis sees some of that, because his desire for an heir is gone, and you have no title to claim.”

She took a shaky breath and straightened up. She had been concerned about exactly this without Bran’s evidence, but she just kept pushing the information to one side. “So, Bran, what do you know about Christmas?”

…

“Santa will be here soon, Shireen. What would you like for Christmas?” Stannis was on roughly his fourteenth topic of conversation now. None of the others had elicited from his daughter anything more than monosyllabic answers and a frightened shiver.

“I want my mother back.” Shireen let that sink in as Stannis winced. “But since that’s not possible, I guess I’d like a home. Any chance of a home?”

Stannis sighed. He had no idea what shape Storm’s End might be in since Renly’s death, and who if anyone lived there now. He could take it back after the war and rebuild it for Shireen, but that was a long way off.

“As soon as the war is over, Shireen. It has displaced a good many people from their homes. We have been lucky to have safe places to live throughout the war.”

“You haven’t,” she said sadly, finally looking at him with sympathy. “You nearly starved to death last time you were in Storm’s End and the Nazis cut it off from supply lines.”

“Who’s starving here?” Sansa smiled as she sat down next to Shireen. “I shall have a word with the kitchen!” She ran her hand freely over Shireen’s hair and then acknowledged Stannis. “Good morning, Field Marshal.”

Before Stannis could stammer a reply, Shireen returned gravely: “I was talking about Daddy’s time during the Battle of Storm’s End.”

“Ah, I see. But that’s such heavy talk for breakfast. Shireen, did you want to come and see the gardens?” Sansa encouraged.

The little girl arranged her cutlery carefully on the plate and swallowed the last of her milk. “Yes, please, Sansa, I should like that very much.”

Sansa took her hand and smiled indulgently. “Aren’t you a polite young lady?” She started towards the exit past the kitchens when she felt Stannis’ hand on her shoulder.

“I have cleared as much of today as I can for Shireen, and I want to accompany her to the gardens,” he told her. “Along with you, of course,” he added quickly.

Sansa gave him a smile as well. She helped Shireen into a heavy wool coat and hat and gloves, then wrapped a scarf around her own neck. She turned to take her coat off the peg by the door and found it gone; Stannis was standing behind her, holding it open for her. Shireen skipped outside as Stannis slid the coat very slowly up her arms, letting his fingers trace up to her shoulders in advance of the fur. He tucked his hands beneath the collar and lifted out her long hair, arranging it over her left shoulder so that he could lean in and place a delicate kiss along her neck.

“Thank you for thinking of Shireen,” he said. They both watched her as she ran down to a small frozen pond near the end of the lawns and began looking about for stick with which to poke at the ice.

“She seems happy to be outside and playing,” Sansa said, her breath coming shallow and fast as Stannis continued to kiss her neck and toy with her hair.

“I cannot tell you how much it means to see her have some happiness,” he spoke quietly. “And I also cannot wait to see you again tonight. You look beautiful this morning, Sansa.” He turned her around to face him and slid one hand into her hair. “You always look beautiful. May I kiss you?”

Sansa forgot completely about their semi-private location in the cloakroom and lifted herself up on her toes to reach his lips by way of an answer. Stannis rushed in with this kiss, coaxing her to open her mouth for him and pressing her back into the soft bank of coats behind them. His tongue stroked against her own, demanding and firm, and Sansa gave back the same. She was learning this dance, and she was a fine dancer.

He backed away when he heard Shireen screeching in delight at something she’d discovered by the pond. Sansa knew she must look a bit mussed, but he casually brushed his fingers against her hair and then traced one finger across her lips to set her right. “You really do look stunning,” he said, emphatically. Turning to the door, he laced her gloved fingers in his and led her into the garden.

…

Jon didn’t quite know where to look. Stannis and Davos were talking, planning out an invasion of the Riverlands and a diplomatic mission to White Harbour to ascertain the state of the naval forces there.  Try as he might to focus on the travel arrangements and detail to be sent to White Harbour, all Jon could think of was Stannis and his sister and the outcome of that _fucking_ pool.

Last night, Ygritte had gone into some detail about what she reckoned would be Stannis’ assets as a lover, and why she thought that Sansa would do well to have the commander as her first. Ramsay, she had spat the name, did not count. Stannis would be gentle to her, Ygritte had explained, running her hand lovingly along the insides of Jon’s thighs. He’ll do, she had gone on, what needs to be done to ready Sansa. And here Ygritte demonstrated by licking a long stripe up Jon’s hard cock. He blocked the memory. Now a subject he did not want to contemplate – Stannis naked under any circumstances, and particularly with his sister – was wrapped up with an image he very much wanted to hang on to – Ygritte’s lips wrapped around the head of his cock.  _Damn you, Ygritte_ , he thought fondly.

“Jon, for the love of God, could you pay attention,” Stannis snapped. “You will need to stay here at Winterfell with the bulk of our forces while I fly to White Harbour tomorrow. I only anticipate being gone for a night. Wyman Manderly’s acting like he owns the fleet and in all honesty, we do need his funds to launch an attack in the south.”

Davos grumbled at Manderly’s name. “What are you planning to say to Manderly to make him part with his pounds and pence?”

“He’ll give me the money or I throw his family into prison.”

Davos could see that Stannis was not joking. “Stannis, that’s a bit short-term…”

“Well, in the short term, Seaworth, I need to win the goddamned war.”

Jon let an image of Ygritte swaying above him, her breasts bouncing and her head thrown back, fade from view. Because Davos was right. “Field Marshal, you cannot afford to alienate the North. If you undermine businessmen like Admiral Manderly, all Northern businesses will wonder if they should trust you.” He picked up a copy of Manderly’s last telegram, which politely discouraged a visit from the commander. “You need to charm him.”

Davos and Stannis both let out a laugh at that. “I’m no charmer, Snow. I work better with threats and brute force.”

_Is that what you have planned for my sister,_ Jon thought before he could help himself. Stannis must have seen the thought on his face, because he frowned and added quickly, “In military matters.”

Jon slumped back into his chair. “I’m no better. Robb and Sansa got all the charm in our family. Manderly actually met Sansa, years ago, and even as a young girl she had him doing her bidding. His wife adored her, and Sansa spent a summer holiday with his granddaughters. He was her guardian for that summer. ”

Jon had been thinking out loud, and the moment his sister’s name slipped from his thoughts and into Stannis’ ears, he cursed himself. Why had he said that? Stannis and Davos picked it up, though.

“An excellent idea, Jon, brilliant. Miss Stark can charm the Manderlys out of their money,” Stannis nodded. “As long as he parts with enough to fund the fleet, I don’t mind why he does it. I will bring her with me tomorrow.”

Davos coughed. “If she agrees.”

Stannis waved his hand in dismissal. “Yes, of course, only if she agrees.” He looked at Jon’s brooding face and asked in all sincerity, “Why so glum, Jon? I promise to take good care of your sister. It’s only for one night.”  

Davos raised a knowing eyebrow at Jon, who gritted his teeth and nodded at Stannis. He couldn’t help looking at the calendar on Stannis’ desk, and wondering who Sam had written down for December 6th.

…

“There’s nothing here,” Bran said incredulously. He had turned over every corner of Winterfell’s small library, looking for histories of The Dragon Age. “Even the books that we had on the history of the noble houses of Westeros are missing. It’s all popular novels: Agatha Christie and Tolkien.”

Sansa had given up the hunt for history tomes half an hour ago and was sprawled over an armchair, flipping through a copy of Rebecca. “This is really good. I want to find out how it ends.” She slipped the novel under her arm. 

“How can there be no histories of our time at all?” Bran sank in exhausted fury to the carpeted floor at her feet.

“I suppose we’re not supposed to know our future.”

“Histories are of the past, Sansa.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Bran. Of course they are. But you’re looking for them because you want to know the future of us, in our own time.”

Bran leaned over, his chin propped on the arm of her chair, his eyes serious. “I don’t think this time is real, Sansa. I think it’s some sort of elaborate illusion, and at some point, we’ll end up back in our own time.”

Sansa picked at the cover of the novel and wondered if she should confide in Bran. She decided she’d have to. She had no one else to confide in, and Robb wasn’t talking. “I saw Stannis reach for a greatsword instead of a gun. Like he’d made a mistake, reached for a sword out of habit.”

Bran nodded, still watching her with his big eyes. “Like a flicker of the real word bleeding into this one?”

Sansa shrugged one shoulder. “It seems that way, but then… this feels real. People die, bleed. They make jokes, they feel pain, they play music. There’s too much here that Robb could never have created himself. This time… it must really exist. And Stannis does not seem to know anything of our age.”

“What exactly did Robb say to you? Tell me again.”

Sansa nearly threw her book at his head. “I’ve told you again and again. There are no further clues to be had from Robb.”  She stomped over to the window and looked out to calm herself. “Should we tell Jon?”

Bran let his chin slump to his chest. “No, we can’t wake anyone else. He’d think we’re mad. And whatever else might be going on, this war is very real, and we can’t distract him from fighting it as best he knows how.”

They slumped together in twin armchairs, heads back and minds whirring, trying to figure out a plan of action. Every so often, one of them would offer an idea or a theory, which the other would question until it fell apart under the weight of their complete lack of information.

“You were kissing Stannis. This morning,” Bran threw out eventually.

Sansa glanced over at her brother, startled. “True,” she offered, non-committal.

“The king wants you, Sansa,” her brother said evenly. “Do you want him? Because if he takes it into his head to want you, then he’ll have you, and we won’t be able to keep you safe from him.”

Sansa tried not to bristle at that, a repetition of Bran’s advice from earlier in the day. “Do I need to be saved from him? Perhaps I’m being saved by him.”

“I suppose that depends, sister, on whether you choose him or not. But don’t think that you have the luxury of taking your time. Whatever the Field Marshal may say about it, the king would have you in a wedding gown and down the godswood on the morrow if he chose it. And if he puts an heir in you, married or not in this time…”

“Bran!” Sansa cut him short, scandalised. “You’re leaping quite a ways ahead from a kiss in the cloakroom to being with child.” She raised a brow. “I know much of your education may have been neglected over these years, but I should think you know that’s not how it works.”

Bran laughed and rolled out of his armchair. He pulled Sansa with him. They hugged and laughed and cried like children. “I’ve missed you, sister,” he finally managed. “All I’m saying is, please be careful. Kings are not to be trifled with.”

Sansa lay giggling on the floor, her eyes roaming the small library, her fingers stretched out to touch the bottom shelf of books nearest her left arm. She read the titles with her head tilted sideways, then reached over to pull a thick volume off the shelf. “Bran,” she prodded at her brother with her foot, “you know what we do have books about? Surgery.”

…

Sansa was hyperventilating. Stannis had managed to move her head down between her knees and was trying to convince her to take deep, slow breaths. Part of him thought that it might be best if she passed out, then at least she could regain consciousness when the plane was safely on the ground. Perhaps a doctor in White Harbour could prescribe her something to calm her for the flight back tomorrow.

She had maintained a brave face, papered thinly over a mounting anxiety, all through the taxi and take off. When he’d asked her to come along to White Harbour, she had agreed readily enough until Jon had explained that the flight would take about 2 hours. She had stilled unnaturally and gripped her brother’s hand, but finally nodded and excused herself to pack an overnight case. When she met him at the car for the short drive to the air field, she had lost all colour and seemed on the verge of illness. He had nearly told her not to trouble herself and sent her back to Winterfell. However, he truly felt that she would be key to his negotiations, and he craved her company like nicotine.

The plane had begun to skirt a mild storm about 6 minutes ago, and Sansa’s ability to cope had rapidly fallen apart. She hadn’t said a word, not a murmur of complaint, she’d just quietly stopped breathing, then been unable to restart calmly.

“Shhhh, Sansa, it’s okay. Just a little storm and it’s no danger to us. Capt Grenn has flown through far worse than this.”

“Aye, lass!” Grenn called back from the cockpit. “Naught but a few bumps. Nothing to worry your pretty self about!”

Once the worst of the turbulence had passed and Sansa was more or less breathing regularly, Stannis adjusted the cushions he’d put down for her on the hard bench of the transport plane, then pulled her into a hug. Grenn could squeal all he liked when they landed about his commander and General Snow’s sister. Stannis was not going to abandon her to her terror just to sidestep some gossip.

_Some accurate gossip_ , his mind supplied.

Sansa seemed constantly on the cusp of a nervous attack, as though everything about the world was too fast, too frightening and too unknown. Not that he minded comforting her. Not at all. But the flip side of her never-ending fascination with life was her unbridled fear of it.

Sansa had taken in all the information about their mission with a keen intellect and a diplomatic mind. Jon had briefed her about their requirements and Manderley’s likely objections, and Sansa had set forth a series of arguments and concessions that she felt might win him over. Stannis had always slightly disdained the diplomatic corps – after all, they’d lost the peace that he now had to win back with sweat and blood – but he found her ability to plan a strategic charm offensive quite impressive.

By the time they touched down outside White Harbour, Sansa had regained her composure, if not her proper colour. She was smoothing down the unwrinkled blue wool of her dress almost nonstop, until Stannis caught both of her hands in one of his and held them tight until they bumped to a halt near a small convoy of vehicles. Even from the tiny window in the door of the transport plane, Stannis could make out the excessive bulk of Wyman Manderly, standing impatiently by a luxurious black car.

Sansa steeled herself so completely that he could no longer just reach over and take her hand. She adjusted her already perfectly-situated hat fasted the large buttons of her coat.  She did not take his arm as the exited the plane, allowing one of Manderly’s retinue to help her down. Then she scurried straight over to the fat man himself, allowing him to kiss both her cheeks and proclaim her Catelyn Stark’s carbon copy. Sansa beamed at the man, then threw her arms in around Wylla Manderly in a spontaneously reciprocated hug. Wylla drew Sansa towards the large black sedan, the chauffeur at the door waiting patiently. Manderly made to follow. Sansa herself stopped them both, turning back to Stannis, who stood entirely forgotten on the Tarmac.

“Admiral Manderly…”

“Please, Sansa, you must call me Wyman,” he glowed benevolently at her.

“Wyman,” Sansa smiled back at him, “you must know Field Marshal Baratheon.”

“Yes, Stannis, welcome of course. You are coming back in the car with us?” Manderly blustered.

Stannis held back the urge to snap at Manderly that he would have been left on the runway but for Sansa’s intervention. “I hadn’t planned on walking, Wyman,” was the best he could do.

Wyman finally paused to look Stannis up and down. “Just the same long, tall ray of light you’ve always been, I see,” he pouted. “May as well get in the car, Stannis. We don’t want to keep the women waiting in the cold.”

…

Wylla took one look at Stannis and Sansa, standing slightly too close together on the runway, and ran upstairs to swap around the guest bedrooms as soon as they returned to New Castle. Those two should have the rooms with an interconnecting door, she smiled to herself.

…

Garish, multi-coloured lights seems to cover every surface of the Manderly’s ballroom, and the frankly obscene Christmas tree rose all the way into the cupola at the top of the two-story ceiling. The lights blazed everywhere Stannis looked or didn’t; they crept into his brain, caused an ache at the back of his eyes that had to be more than aesthetic objection. He’d been in a mood ever since they touched down, all the way through the initial talks with Wyman over drinks in his elegant office. Stannis had put his case forward – without Wyman’s naval power, the Westerosi republic stood no chance against the Nazis in a battle for King’s Landing. Wyman had refused to give an answer on way or the other, insisting that he would defer a decision until after the ball tonight.

Stannis watched in a mute temper as Sansa, an untouched glass of champagne in her hand, spoke first with Wyman, then with a succession of wealthy financiers that Wyman introduced her to. Wyman had no more than a fatherly interest in the girl, Stannis knew, feeling loyal to her late father. But plenty of the other men stared blatantly. She floated around the room in a gentle sway of golden silk that didn’t exactly hug her curves, but certainly showed them off. The dress was modest and intricate and swirled about her ankles as she walked. Her hair had been plaited and pinned atop her head, showing off her long neck.

A neck Stannis felt very territorial about.

At this moment, Sansa was deep in conversation with an army captain who Stannis did not recognise. He had the insignia of the Vale on his dress uniform. But what was turning Stannis’ temper to liquid anger and self-loathing was the man’s appearance: blonde, handsome, charming, young. Everything that Stannis was not. Sansa’s airy laugh floated across the dancefloor to him and he ground his teeth together.

“Looks like Harrold Hardyng has found our Sansa,” Wylla smiled. “Do you think he seems her type?”

Stannis did his best disinterested huff, as though the subject were beneath him. “I’ve not come to White Harbour to gossip about Ms Stark’s likes and dislikes,” he snapped. “I want to know if your father will be advancing the Westerosi military the money that we need to put that fleet into battle. We have a country to save.”

“Of course, Field Marshal. But life goes on despite the war, and I’d say Ms Stark’s life is just beginning. All the years kept a prisoner of the Lannisters, then the Boltons. It is wonderful to see her so free with her affections, is it not?”

_No, it’s bloody well not wonderful._ “She is certainly free to flirt with whomever she chooses,” Stannis stuck to the facts.

Wylla frowned. “Oh, I’m not entirely sure she’s flirting with him. He is certainly trying it on with her. But it remains to be seen if such a notorious rake is really to her taste. I should think Ms Stark’s appetites are somewhat more refined.” She smiled graciously at Stannis. “Hardyng looks good next to her, but he runs about as deep as a summer puddle. I can think of two women here tonight that he is already stepping out with.” Wylla cocked her head to one side, studying him too closely for his comfort, making his fists clench tighter along with his jaw. “You wouldn’t cheat on her, would you Field Marshal?”

Stannis whipped his head round from the view of Sansa to take in Wylla, with her modern short hair and faintly greenish tinge. “What did you say?” he almost growled.

“If Sansa was yours, Field Marshal. Would. You. Cheat. On. Her?”

“That is both an inappropriate and an entirely speculative question, Ms Manderly. Ms Stark and I are not dating,” he retorted.

“No? What a pity. There’s a ballroom full of men here tonight, Field Marshal, and single or married, they all want her. I can think of very few who would I would want anywhere near my childhood friend. If you plan to love her and be ever-good to her, then I suggest you get started.” Wylla shrugged. “Up to you.” She lifted her half-empty glass of Scotch to him. “Best of luck,” she offered.

Stannis turned back to watching Sansa, seeing the scene now in the light of Wylla’s revelations. Sansa, clutching her champagne glass so tightly it might shatter, pulling arms and hands out of Hardying’s reach wherever he touched her. Sansa was not enchanted. She was terrified. She had taken at least six steps backwards and was now in danger of tumbling down the wide marble staircase if she tried to retreat further. Hardyng noticed the same, and when Sansa set her foot precariously backwards on the edge of the stone step, he whipped his arm around her waist and lifted her forward, into himself.

“Take care, Ms Stark. You could have fallen,” he warned in a low voice. Sansa looked vaguely horrified and began to retreat in the other direction, never turning her back on Hardyng.

Stannis had seen enough. He excused himself from a grinning Wylla Manderly and put himself directly behind Sansa. She startled and nearly fell when she bumped into his chest. He slid an arm under her elbow to steady her, and she shot him a grateful smile and relaxed. The long skirts of her soft dress brushed over his shoes as she took the arm he offered.

“Field Marshal! I thought you’d be all evening with Mr Manderly and his associates. Have you met Cpt Hardyng?” She gestured weakly at the man who had nearly forced her down the stairs. “He was just telling me the news of the Vale.”

Stannis stared impassively down at Hardyng. “Did I interrupt your conversation, Ms Stark?”

Sansa shook her head vehemently, pleading with him with her eyes to make Hardyng go away. He saw no reason to beat about the bush.

“Cpt Hardying, go find somewhere else to be.”

Sansa looked slightly aghast and Hardyng just shook his head, smiling in shocked disbelief. “Pardon, Field Marshal?”

“I said, shift yourself. The lady has grown tired of your company and I trust her judgement. Be off with you.” Hardyng started at him, open-mouthed. “That is an order, Captain.”

Hardyng pulled himself into a more formal stance, his smirk long gone, and saluted. He nodded a curt good evening to Sansa, and left.

“Stannis! You cannot just speak to people like that!”

“Why not? You were so keen to get away from him that you nearly injured yourself. He is an officer in my army. He’ll do what I tell him to do, and I wanted him to leave.”

Sansa shook her head and laughed, truly laughed, at him. He was disconcerted and enchanted all at once. “Now I understand why you’ve brought me here. Is this how you conduct negotiations? ‘Do as I say or I’ll throw you in the dungeons’?”

Stannis tensed. “I am more warrior than diplomat.”

“Strength and cunning to win the battle and diplomats to win the peace,” Sansa smiled sadly. Stannis had heard those words of Ned Stark’s via Robert.

Stannis brought up a hand to close over hers where it rested on his arm. “Your father was a wise man. And a good thing for me he brought you up as a diplomat. I’m in need of one.”

The band began to play a tune that Sansa recognised from the first night in the pub. “Is that Duke Ellington?” she asked, glancing up at him.

Stannis smiled and put his hand on the small of her back. “You learn fast,” he said approvingly. “And I did promise you dancing tonight.”

“I had dancing last night, too. You found a pub with good music, good as your word.” She resisted his attempt to pull her closer. In the pubs and clubs of Wintertown, no one had paid them much attention. Here in the Manderly’s grand ballroom, everyone in White Harbour’s society was watching them, whispering about them. _Look at that Stark girl, two husbands she’s gone through and now dancing with the King_ , her fears muttered in her mind.

They danced that song and another two before Stannis felt they could reasonably claim exhaustion after their journey and retire to their rooms. Wyman smiled indulgently at Sansa as she came over to lay a goodnight kiss to his cheek. “My darling girl, did you have a good night?” he asked.

“I have, Admiral Manderly. Most wonderful. I have been through such hell since the start of this war, and to come here, to my friends, my second family really, for such a magical evening…” She sighed happily. “The only thing that could make this trip to see you and your family more special would be knowing that it won’t be our last such Christmas. Which surely it will if we do not win the fight against the Nazis.” She squeezed Wyman’s hands in both of hers. “Please think on it tonight, as I know my you, father’s great friend, want to see his death justified by victory. We must have the fleet.” She gave Wyman another chaste kiss, and returned to Stannis’ arm.

Wyman had actual tears in his eyes after her little speech, Stannis noted with awe. She had, without any harsh words or threats or concessions, just won him hundreds of thousands of pounds and a fleet of ships.

…

Stannis found the interconnecting door almost before Sansa has time to kick off her heels. He didn’t knock, or speak, just swept into her room and began kissing her. He unpinned and unbraided her long hair, running his fingers through the waves repeatedly while keeping her close.

Before she knew quite what had happened, Sansa had her legs wrapped around Stannis’s torso and head tipped back to the wall, exposing her throat and chest. Stannis stood between her legs with one hand under her bum, squeezing and kneading and keeping her pulled flush against his abdomen while balancing her on a high ornamental table near the fireplace. His lips were trailing across her collarbone, the other hand pulling aside Jeyne’s borrowed bra, his large calloused fingers stroking over any inch of breast he managed to uncover.   

She should not be doing this. Good girls did not do this sort of thing with men other than their lord husbands.

Stannis’ tongue found her nipple, and she forgot her previous objections. He made faster work of unhooking Jeyne’s bra than Sansa herself managed when undressing of an evening, and her partially unzipped dress fell down her shoulders along with the bra. Stannis leaned back to take in the sight of her naked breasts, and then he looked up into her eyes. He looked… grateful. Decidedly grateful, she thought. He kissed her lips again, opening her mouth passionately, pushing her head somewhat uncomfortably into the wall behind her, his hands both now occupied with her breasts.

She should not be doing this. Did she desire to be the king’s mistress, someone he soiled and threw away for a pure bride with pure thoughts and higher moral expectations of herself?

She looked down to find that while her thoughts had been occupied with morality, her fingers had pulled his shirt free of his trousers and managed to unbutton it to his navel. They were working free a difficult button without her conscious consent. The button was trying to tell her something: to stop him. Stop this.

“The button is a sign,” Sansa sighed, taking her hands away from the well- defined muscles below his shirt.

Stannis groaned into her cleavage, but pulled back to look at her, his eyes dark and lustful. “What?” he demanded, sounding perplexed and rather dismayed at the interruption. “Why do women keep saying such incomprehensible things to me tonight?”

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she said shakily, then pulled lightly at his shirt, still held in place by the one stubborn button. “The button is trying to stop us. It is a sign.”

Stannis removed his hands from her body and Sansa wasn’t sure if she was relieved or distressed. Then he brought them to his shirt and tugged hard, leaving only ripped threads where his shirt had been held closed. “Fu…” He stopped himself. “To hell with the button, Sansa,” he whispered harshly as it bounced across the carpeting. “It can’t sit in judgement on us anymore.” He worked his hand under her hair at the back of her head and pulled her in for a searing kiss, and then another. She could barely catch her breath. “If you feel uncomfortable and want to stop, though, we’ll stop.”

Stannis gathered her up from the table and held her against his body, her bare feet dangling inches above the floor, his muscles flexed with the effort. He let her slide down him slowly to the ground. She was half naked, his chest hair tickled her bare breasts, and her open dress dipped low on her hips, but he held her so close that she did not feel exposed. He kept kissing her, dipping his tongue into her mouth, nibbling at her lips, and all the while she tried to shut down an infuriating internal monologue:

_We should stop. This is improper._ Followed immediately by: _This feels luscious. Keep touching me._

Septa Mordane and Catelyn Stark won out at last. _This is the king; you are a lady of Winterfell. You are not a serving girl and a stable lad._

Sansa pushed lightly against his chest, and Stannis removed his hands from her breasts and arse. He returned to running them up and down her arms, gently, almost a tickle. “Yes, quite right,” he mumbled, clearly not meaning a word of it, and he snatched her bra off the thick rug at their feet. Stannis coaxed her arms open, and he heaved a dramatic sigh as the bra covered her breasts. Smoothing the straps across the tops of her shoulders, Stannis bid her turn around. She did so, and she watched him in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He brushed her hair across one shoulder, and fastened the clasp of her bra with tremendous focus. She watched as he met her eyes in the mirror, then, still maintaining eye contact, he kissed along her exposed neck and shoulder. When he had reached a spot that was easily below the neckline of her dress, he closed his eyes and began to suck. Hard.

That will leave a bruise, she thought. She closed her eyes again and let him. When he finished, he ran his fingers over the mark, then kissed down her spine to the clasp of Jeyne’s bra. With another heavy sigh, he pulled her dress up her arms and dragged the zip slowly up to her neck, covering the bruise he’s just left on her.

“Have I pushed you too far?” he hesitated, hands resting on her shoulders, still looking at her in the mirror.

She shook her head. No one had ever done any of this to her before. She wasn’t a virgin, not after Ramsay, but everything short of him, well – _can’t say it, still_ – everything nice, everything loving, everything good that came _before_ was unexplored territory.

“So, if I asked you to join me tomorrow for a private dinner in Winterfell, you’d come along?”

Sansa looked down at her feet. “Stannis, maybe this is moving somewhat too quickly.”

Dropping his head down to place another kiss on her shoulder, Stannis nodded. “It is, but I suppose these things often do in war time.”

Sansa wondered if he knew how sharp his kneejerk honesty could cut. She didn’t want to be his wartime fling, someone ill-thought-through in the heat of the moment. She wanted him to love her, and not for her soft hair or her body or for what she damn well knew were her pretty blue eyes.

Stannis seemed to pick up on some of this. “Sansa, I won’t lie. I want you. Very much. But that’s really not all of it.” An exasperated sort of worry had taken over his whole face, both of his arms pulled her back tight against his chest.

If that’s as much as you can give right now, then this is as far as we go, she thought.

“You’ll come along though? To dinner tomorrow?” He turned her around to face him and backed her up to the door that connected their rooms, anchored her there with his body and kissed down her neck. “Say you’ll have dinner with me, Sansa. Say it, and I’ll go.”

She raised her head from where it had fallen against the door, then raised one eyebrow. “You’ll go whether I agree to dinner or not,” she told him.

“Mmmm, of course,” he had his hands over her breasts again, though this time her dress and bra stayed firmly in place. He kissed her lips, his tongue licking her mouth back open for him. The kisses seemed to blend into one another without end. “I’ll go when you tell me to go.” He quickly caught her mouth beneath his, so that she couldn’t give the order.

When even Stannis had to come up for air, she caught his face in her hands and met his eyes. “I’ll come to dinner with you,” she said, “if you leave right now without further attempts to seduce me.”

That straightened Stannis up.

“Is that an option? Seducing you, I mean?”

With a laugh, Sansa opened the door and pushed him through.

…

Melisandre stared into the flames of the fireplace in Winterfell’s great hall, now stuffed to the rafters with soldiers noisily eating a late night meal. She could see the King through the flames, undressing the Stark girl, pushing for more. The girl was chaste despite her past, of noble stock, young and fertile. A good choice, then, for Stannis to sire a trueborn son on her. But that good little girl needed to spread her legs for her king, and she was showing every sign of resisting. In their own world, Stannis would simply have taken what he needed. Here, he was weaker, endlessly following her lead, giving her time, when he needed to pry her knees apart and impregnate her.

She smiled into the fireplace. She could help with that. Just slip something into the girl’s drink tomorrow night and Sansa Stark would be powerless to resist her king, the Lord of Light’s chosen one. The Stark girl would thank her in the end, when she went down in history as the mother of a great king, a line of Baratheons who would rule wisely and well for generations.

That girl held the key to the kingdom of Westeros between her legs. King Stannis just needed to remember who he truly was.


	10. Ghosts

Jon had no idea why he was out here, in the fucking knee-deep snow, his balls not nearly warm enough in army-issue cotton trousers. Ygritte and Tormund had babbled nonsensically at him for 15 minutes before pulling him from his nice, toasty office and into the ice storm in the woods beyond Winterfell. He’d followed them around for a full hour with a face too numb to speak, his legs dragging through the thick drifts, and he was still no closer to a reasonable explanation for this little hike. They’d seen something, he got that. They were excellent scouts – the best – attuned to any little changes in the environment.

But whatever they’d seen, they could not find it again.

They made it back to the castle, with Jon frozen stiff in front of the roaring fire in the great hall, ice melting onto the stone floor, dripping from his boots and coat. Tormund and Ygritte looked frustrated and anxious, but not the least bit contrite.

“We saw it,” Tormund insisted.

“We _both_ saw it,” Ygritte added. She stomped her boots to shake off the worst of the snow and held her hands over the fire.

Bran came over with a stack of thick blankets and handed them out. He stood just back from the fire. “What’s the news from the woods, brother?” he asked Jon.

Jon shook his head, a spray of melting ice flying from his wet curls. “No idea. Whatever they saw before, there’s no sign of it now. And it’s snowing too hard to track properly. Prints are covered up in a matter of minutes out there.”

Turning to Ygritte and Tormund, Bran asked, politely curious. “What did you see?”

“It was enormous. Large as a fullgrown stag, but definitely a wolf,” said Tormund, shuddering.

Ygritte nodded along. “A white wolf, with yellow eyes. It was placid, no snarling, and it meant us no harm.”

Bran sat down at the nearest table, his knuckles white on the bench. Jon shot him a curious look. “There’s lots out there in the woods we don’t know about, I suppose,” Jon shrugged. “Never heard of giant wolves running around here, though. And I grew up here.”

Bran was having trouble catching his breath. “You’re sure it was white?” he asked Ygritte. When she nodded, he looked at Jon. “I’ve seen it, Jon, once. A very long time ago. You don’t remember it?”

Jon just stared at him. “No, of course I don’t.” He was willing to pander to Tormund, his friend, and Ygritte, his girlfriend, but his own brother should know that monsters in the woods were stories for gullible children. “Look, I’m going to go jump in a hot bath and defrost if it’s all the same to you three.” As he stomped out of the hall, he heard Tormund’s rasping voice speaking to Bran, “So you seen him too, lad? The direwolf?”

…

Stannis dropped a file of typed and signed papers onto Davos’ desk with an enigmatic look on his face. Popping on his glasses, Davos flipped open the file and spread the paperwork before him. Both eyebrows rose up almost to his hairline.

“You secured funding for the full fleet – I mean, he _gave_ you much of it? Not even a loan?” Davos looked incredulous. “How did you manage this? Did you actually throw one or more of his granddaughters in prison?”

Stannis shook his head. “Wyman would have charged me for my stay and refused me so much as an anchor. It’s all down to Sansa. I brought her along to this morning’s meetings and Wyman caved almost before she opened her mouth. She name-checked Ned a few times and Wyman was all but shoving the cash across the table at her.”  

“She’s one helluvan asset, Field Marshal,” Davos grinned. “How do you plan to thank her?”

“Thank her? We’re at war; she was doing her duty to the nation. Why would I thank her for _that_?”

Davos leaned back in his chair. “Right, not for _that_. So, has she maybe done something else you might consider worth a thank you?”

Stannis narrowed his eyes and tapped the desk in front of Davos. “Have a copy of these made and arrange a meeting with Snow to go over our move towards the Riverlands. Keep me informed of Brynden Tully’s progress,” he snapped.

“Of course, sir. I will take care of it,” Davos looked up, his eyes betraying his attempts to stifle a knowing smile. “Please feel free to leave and get on with any thanking you feel needs doing.”

Stannis snapped the door shut behind him rather too hard.

…

Sansa and Shireen were cuddled together on Shireen’s bed, their hair plaited identically and both listening with the utmost attention to Stannis as he read to them from his spot on the armchair across from the bed.

“’A merry Christmas, Uncle! God save you!’ cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach. ‘Bah,’ said Scrooge, ‘Humbug!’” Stannis read, while Shireen and Sansa giggled at his interpretation of the voices. He made it through the ghost of Christmas past before Sansa signalled to him that Shireen was now fast asleep. She settled the little girl under her duvet and gave her a kiss. Stannis tucked her plait over her shoulder and then kissed her as well. “G’night, Shireen,” he smiled fondly.

Once safely in the corridor, Sansa grabbed the book from his hands. “What a marvellous story,” she told him, a broad smile on her face. “I can’t wait until tomorrow’s bedtime, now, to hear the rest.”

Stannis paused his footsteps and turned to her. “You don’t know the story of A Christmas Carol?” he asked. “I’m sorry, Sansa,” he backtracked quickly as she started to look uncertain of herself again. “I should stop asking those questions.” He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, the book resting against her back and pressed a kiss into her hair. “You don’t have to wait until tomorrow night, you know. I’ll read it to you tonight.”

“Yeah?” she lifted her face out of his shirtfront. “You don’t mind? I mean, I know you’re reading it to Shireen and…”

“I read it to Shireen every year, and I’ll keep reading it to her this year,” he explained. “But I’d also enjoy reading it to you. I like introducing you to some of the experiences that have been kept from you.”

Sansa had a vision of them cuddled into her large bed in her parents’ former room, snug under the duvet, with him slowly reading her every book in Winterfell’s library. “Thank you, Stannis. I can’t remember the last time someone read me a story, especially not a new one.” She thought of the small stack of books on her dresser, the spoils of her trip to the library with Bran. They’d sound much better with Stannis’ rich, deep voice reading them to her. And kissing her neck, and running his fingers through her hair.

“You’ll come back to my room for dinner, now?” Stannis asked. He sounded almost boyish in his hopefulness.

“Yes, I’ve said I would. I need to sort a few things in the kitchen, then I’ll be over. Perhaps 15 minutes?”

He pulled the back of her hand to his lips and place a soft kiss there. Then he flipped her hand over and kissed the palm, then her fingertips. Sansa was nearly panting by the time he gathered her in for a proper kiss, starting slow and then moving deeper and deeper. She pushed him back at last, “Let me go, Stannis,” she smiled, “I’ll be back with you soon.” She held onto his hand as long as she could while walking backwards down the hall, nearly tripping over a coatrack at the end of the hallway.

“Turn around and watch your step,” Stannis ordered gently. “I’d like you back in one piece.”

…

Melisandre spied Sansa’s lovestruck gaze in the corridor and Stannis’ insistent kisses. She waited for Sansa to pass her on the way down the stairs to the kitchen, bumping the girl on purpose and scratching her lightly with one of her nails. Sansa made a small, pained noise, but tried an anxious smile to cover her discomfort.

“Oh, Melisandre, I didn’t see you there.

“I hope I’ve not hurt you,” Mel smiled enigmatically, stroking the small scratch on Sansa’s left arm. A bead of blood formed, and Mel swiftly lifted it away with a swipe of her finger, then licked the small drop of blood into her mouth. She watched Sansa the whole time, as the girl looked offended, then uncomfortable.

“No, I’ll heal,” Sansa said, trying to cover her irritation. She disappeared along the corridor towards the kitchen.

Melisandre continued her slow roam through the castle’s long hallways, finally arriving at his unlocked door. She knew he was expecting Sansa, and she took advantage of the fact to push in unannounced. He was in the attached bathroom with the door closed when she entered.

Standing by the hearth, Melisandre breathed in deep the smoke from Stannis’ fire, letting it combine with Sansa’s blood inside her body. She murmured her incantations into the flames, then picked up the bottle of wine Stannis had set on small the table near the window. It held two simple, white place settings. Melisandre breathed out the smoke into the wine, then breathed more across Stannis’ bed.

“Take her, my king. Let tonight begin the great era of the Baratheons of Westeros.” Melisandre smiled as she slipped from the room once again.

…

Stannis felt strange almost as soon as he emerged from the bathroom. Out of sorts. He paced the room, waiting for Sansa to return from the kitchens. A busboy knocked at his door soon after, carrying the tray of food he’d requested earlier in the day. He asked the boy if he’d seen Ms Stark, and he replied that she was speaking to the cooks. Stannis huffed and tried to puzzle out why he felt so impatient for her return. He should encourage her to seek lighter employment once they married; she was up at all hours these last two weeks, attempting to sort out one problem or another with the castle. He would find her some reliable employee to assist her.

Almost before he could find something to distract himself with, she knocked softly at the door. He nearly ripped it from its hinges in his hurry to usher her into his room. He pulled her into a passionate kiss, kicking shut the door behind him and sliding the deadbolt quietly into place. He pulled out her chair and poured her a glass of wine, and she gave him a beautiful, trusting smile as she took a sip. He pulled his chair round so that he was sitting right next to her, almost touching. Patience. He would be touching all of her soon. His lady. His.

…

Sansa felt almost sleepy in the heavy atmosphere of Stannis’ room. She supposed that she had been up very early the last few days, and the travelling had certainly taken its toll. He seemed different as well, more intense if that were possible, unwaveringly concentrating on her.

She raised her glass to her lips for another taste of the wine, when Stannis gently but firmly took her cup from her hand and began tasting the wine from her own mouth. He tasted of cold air and cigarettes, and she let herself melt into him, remembering how good he’d felt in that room in White Harbour last night. He slid an arm around her middle and tugged her into a tight embrace, steering her over to his bed and sitting them both down on the edge of it.

Sansa lost sense of time and of self. Stannis tipped her gently back into the soft sheets, minute movements opened the tiny buttons on her blouse. She sighed when his hands skimmed over her bare breasts; she couldn’t remember getting undressed enough for that to happen. His calloused fingers circled her breasts, setting off nerve endings and registering pleasure that she had never experienced with a man before Stannis. His hands were dipping just below the line of her knickers to stroke her skin. Her saw her skirt hanging over one of the chairs by the window, and she could not remember that happening, either.

Stannis gripped both of Sansa’s wrists in one of his hands, pinning them to the mattress above her head. Twisting and pulling, Sansa tried to free her hands, but Stannis’ grip tightened like iron shackles. Stannis’ tongue tickled gently over her nipples before he took one in his mouth and sucked. Sansa arched off the bed, trying to push her breasts closer to Stannis, chasing the pleasure of his licks and nibbles. She wanted to scratch her nails through the hair on his chest, to run her hands over his shoulders and arms. She tried again to tug her arms from his fist.

Joffrey had shackled her once, just before letting Meryn Trant beat her. Ramsay had shackled her to the floor of a dungeon cell one day, just for his own amusement. And just like that, Sansa’s head cleared of lust and the present, lost in the tight grip of past tormentors. Her body instantly froze, dropping with a shush to the mattress, and she stared blankly at the ceiling. _Let me go_ , she thought wildly, _please let me go_. Her voice caught in her throat.

“Sansa? My lady, are you well?”

_My lady_?

“Sansa,” a hand returned from her belly and began stroking her face. “Is aught amiss?” He still held her wrists, but his other hand brushed her hair away from her face and his eyes searched hers for answers. “Pray, Sansa, tell me what has gone ill for you.”

_Mother and maiden, help me. He’s the king. He’s speaking like the king._

“Please, Your Grace, release me!” she whimpered, so quietly that she felt sure he could not hear it. But he did hear, and looked up at his hand pressing hers into the bed as though he was watching some foreign being holding her down.

“Seven hells!” he unclenched his fist and whipped it away from her, leaning back on his opposite elbow and giving her some space. “By the gods, woman, forgive me… I did not intend such.”

Sansa swallowed hard and pulled her arms in front of her chest, touching each wrist to soothe the slight ache. She held her hands above her eyes; other than a faint redness, there was no mark. Stannis sat upright in the bed, his unbuttoned trousers pooling low on his hips as he shifted to kneel beside her prone body. He picked up her wrists tenderly and laid a series of light kisses across them.

Sansa’s wide eyes swept the room. The details belied his speech, the modern, mass-produced wine glasses on the table, his undone trousers still gaping open at a zipper, his gun on the nightstand. She said nothing, unsure quite who she now found herself in bed with. Perhaps this was how Bran felt all along, with this memories immediately converting modern events into their own historical setting.

“Lady Sansa…”

She flinched away from him, frightened of this Stannis, the room suddenly feeling unbearably smoky and stifling. “Please… the window. Could you open the window?”

He buried his fingers in the hair at the back of her head and pressed a hard kiss to her forehead, then rolled gracefully from the bed and walked to the window. He unlatched the catch on the leaded glass and pushed until she felt a rush of cool air clear the room and her head. Stannis leaned over the wooden sill, his head in the cold December air, a few snowflakes drifting into this short, dark hair and past him, onto the rug. She could see his upper body expand with a deep breath of the clear winter breeze. He finally turned and leaned back against the window ledge, staring at her intently.

“Sansa, you okay? May I come back to the bed?” He raised his hands in front of him in surrender. “I will not touch you, I promise.”

Sansa let out a shaky breath and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, the sheet still clutched to her chest with one hand. She answered carefully, “Honestly? I’m not even hurt. I just… I couldn’t get free and then I was afraid…”

He was across the room in three long strides and dropping to his knees before her and placing his hands on either side of her thighs, silently asking for permission to touch her again. She couldn’t help but smile at him, so earnest and concerned and contrite, slid her hands over his, twining their fingers together.

Permission granted, Stannis swiftly hefted her up, spinning to sit himself on the bed, Sansa snuggled to his chest, his back against the headboard. She lay her head on his shoulder and laughed self-consciously. “I’m sorry, Stannis, I shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Sansa,” his hands skimmed down her spine, finding the scattered scars across her lower back and beneath her shoulder blades. “I know at least some of what you’ve been through. I should never have held you down.” He was kissing her hair then.

It was overwarm in his room; perhaps I imagined the changes. He was her Stannis again, caressing her bare skin, murmuring the necessary apologies in her ear.

“Here,” he held out his hand to help her from the bed. “We’ve still not eaten, and after that I owe you another chapter of Dickens.” Stannis picked his shirt up from the floor and handed it to Sansa, then buttoning it up after she slipped it on and rolled up the sleeves. It hung halfway down her thighs, covering her knickers, but Stannis looked captivated by the sight of her in his clothing.

“Do I look good in army green, then?” she smiled.

“Sansa,” he brushed through her hair and left his hands around her face, his thumbs stroking along her jaw, “you look gorgeous. Always.” Sansa blushed and grinned. They sat near the fire and she propped herself on his chest, shirtless despite the still-open window blowing the occasional flurry of snowflakes around them. They ate their dinner together, laughing and talking until late into the night.

When Sansa woke the next morning, she felt warm and safe, held tight to Stannis’ bare chest behind her. They’d fallen asleep beneath the thick duvet and wool blankets, she still in her knickers and his shirt, and he in his unbelted trousers. His hand had slipped beneath the shirt and held her breast, his fingers rubbing smooth circles into her skin at times. He breathed, warm and even, against her neck. The window was still open, the morning sun illuminating the ice that had formed around the table, frosting the remains of their dinner and covering the wine glasses in a thin white mist of ice crystals. Sansa considered disentangling herself from him and the warm bed and shutting the window, but instead she huddled closer to Stannis and burrowed deeper beneath the covers.

Winter had entered the room, and in honour of her family words, she knew she shouldn’t turn it away.

She should tell Bran what had happened with Stannis last night. She should tell him that Stannis had remembered himself again, if only for a short time, but again seemed to have no lasting knowledge of it. She should talk through what it might mean. But all she could bring herself to care about was that the king – not this modern man asleep behind her, but the king – had pulled his hands off her wrists, had kissed her and reassured her, had apologised and promised not to do such things again. He had been gentle, even loving.

She lay her head back on the deep pillow and closed her eyes as Stannis unconsciously flexed his muscles and tightened his grasp of her body. She fell back into sleep with a smile on her lips.

…

Bran stood in the shadows at the far north of the great hall in the small hours of the morning, as far from the great hearth as he could be. He watched silently as the red witch chanted before the fire, throwing items he could not make out into the flames at intervals. Her hands seem to call forth the heat and smoke into the empty hall. Even as far away as he stood in the freezing cold, the heat sought him out and he felt almost as if his face and hands burned with it. Bran closed his eyes to see his memory, and the Melisandre in the her short, black dress and fashionably short hair fell away, replaced by a woman in a long gown the colour of wine, her long vibrant hair trailing all the down her spine. He couldn’t see her face from this distance and this angle, but the smoke seemed even more poisonous in his memory.

He opened his eyes to see Mel upend an earthenware bowl of herbs into the fireplace; the powerful scent hit him across the expanse of the room. She breathed in, then breathed a curl of smoke into a dusty, blue bottle, quickly stoppering it with a cork. She slipped the bottle into a pocket of her black skirt and swept out of the hall.

What the witch meant to do with the potion, Bran did not know. He had watched her doing something similar last night at dinner, the hall filled with men and chatter and unseeing of Mel’s quiet plans. Bran felt that he needed to find Sansa. Somehow, he feared, Mel intended that ill magic for his sister, and he had no idea what it might do to her.


	11. Trust

While Jeyne probed for details, Sansa blushed and shook off her questions, trying to duck beneath the noise and hide. They huddled together on their bench in the dining hall, whispering and giggling. The great hall was packed tight with tables and benches pushed end-to-end, soldiers having arrived from all over the North to join forces with Stannis on his push to the Riverlands. The soldiers streamed into the kitchens in a seemingly never-ending queue in search of food. Sansa had warned Stannis that Winterfell could not feed so many for too much longer. She knew he did not intend to stay beyond Christmas, but even that was more than two weeks off. Shipments came in by lorry and plane daily from White Harbour, but each new day dawned with Sansa in the kitchens with her staff, trying to stretch the flour and potatoes further and further.

“So you kissed…” Jeyne prompted.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Of course we kissed. Well, he kissed me.”

“You’re allowed to kiss a man, Sansa. No law against it,” Gilly cajoled gently from the across the table. “But no more than kissing?” Grenn had sent her in to check; he held the pool ticket for December 7th.  Edd, Sam, Grenn and Gendry sat a bit away, trying to catch a bit of the conversation. But Gilly interpreted her repeated insistence that the field marshal had been ‘respectful’ as proof that Grenn held a losing ticket. She shook her head at them. Grenn grumbled and the others looked triumphant.

“Well, he did…” Sansa’s voice faded in embarrassment.

Ygritte slammed her beer glass onto the table. “Out with it, Sansa. Did he fuck you or not?”

Sansa blanched, lowered her eyes and shook her head. “No, he had me mostly undressed, but then I asked him to stop and he gave me his shirt to wear.”

“You wore his shirt?” Brienne grinned. “That is… it’s really hard to imagine him doing something so sweet.” She reached over and patted Sansa’s hand. “So, is the Field Marshal a cuddler?”

 “He is reading me the most wonderful book,” Sansa began.

Ygritte stared at her, mouth open. “Stannis Baratheon is reading you a book? Whilst partially dressed? In bed? And cuddling you?” She scoffed. “That man was stone and ice and iron, and he’s melted into a pathetic little puddle at your feet. Of course he cuddled you.” She shook her head.

“Sansa,” Jeyne tried gently, “Do you want to have sex with him? Like Gilly said, it’s completely fine…”

“I’ve been fucking Jon for months now,” Ygritte added around a mouthful of grilled chicken. “Highly recommend a warrior like Jon or Stannis in bed.”

Sansa had known that Ygritte slept in her brother’s room, but hearing it put so bluntly shocked her. “But Jon’s always been so worried, about fathering a…” Sansa stopped herself. She couldn’t say bastard, not about Jon, not anymore, and certainly not about any baby Jon might father. “About having a baby outside marriage.”

“Well, he hasn’t proposed, and he hasn’t kept it zippered,” Ygritte shrugged. “I suppose the condoms ease his conscience a good deal.”

Sansa knew damn well, just from context, that she should know what condoms are and that she should not give away her ignorance of what should probably be as a basic a fact as Christmas. But if something was allowing Jon to have sex without worrying about conceiving children, then Sansa wanted to know what it was more than she wanted to safeguard her origins. So she asked anyway: “Condoms?”

Brienne, Gilly and Jeyne stopped chewing to stare at her. Ygritte looked unsurprised and answered,  “Ya know, rubbers, Johnnies.” Sansa stared on, blank and determined. “A rubber sheath that a man rolls over his cock to keep you from getting pregnant. All the soldiers have them. The army might run out of food and beer, but they always have condoms. Plenty of them don’t like wearing them, mind, but Jon’s not complained.”

Jeyne nodded along. “They stop a man knocking you up,” she added. “The rubber collects all his semen, and you just throw it away afterwards.”

“It’s much neater, no mess like when they come inside you,” Ygritte confirmed, and Gilly snorted at that.

“It’s true, less washing of sheets,” Gilly grinned. “Though I don’t like to reduce love-making to a laundry problem.”

Sansa was certain that her face must be the colour of a beet. “And Stannis will have some of these condoms?” she asked. “He’ll know how to use them?”

Brienne nearly shouted, “Of course! You shouldn’t have to ask, but I bet you will need to. Men usually try to without first. They like it better without.”

Jeyne arched one of her perfect eyebrows. “You must insist that he use condoms. He absolutely must. You can always use your mouth on him without a condom, if he’s craving something wet. You can’t get pregnant from swallowing it.”

“Jeyne!” Brienne warned, putting an arm around Sansa. “Maybe too much at once, okay?”

“My mouth…” Sansa repeated, furrowing her brow. “Would he want me to put my mouth on…”

“Yes,” Tormund said, arriving to sit next to Brienne and rattling his plate down on the table, having very obviously caught some of their conversation. “Yes, I guarantee that even our staid and solid field marshal will scream like a whore if you suck his… What? That hurt!” He rubbed his bicep where Brienne had just landed a solid punch. “I’m just trying to educate the girl,” he leaned over the table to Sansa, using his hands to demonstrate as he spoke. “Stannis might be too … Stannis… to say anything, so let me just say that you can’t just lick, you have to suck and use your hands like…” Brienne pulled him backwards off the bench and shoved him to the ground on the other side of Edd and Gendry, who were both staring at him horrified.

“My ginger friend, you had better hope that Jon never, ever hears that you just explained to his little sister how to suck our commander’s cock,” Edd intoned.

Tormund shook off Brienne and took a seat next to Edd. “I didn’t even get to the critical part about fondling the balls. Now she’ll never find out.”

“Jon’ll have _your_ balls off for that,” Gendry agreed.

Ygritte laughed, “Oh, Jon can’t very well begrudge Stannis having a woman blow him.” She nodded across the dining hall. “Besides, there’s that Melisandre woman. You can bet she was sucking and fondling to keep him interested. Certainly wasn’t her personality he was after.”

Melisandre was making her way over to the table, Sansa immediately shifting from feeling vaguely horrified at Tormund and Ygritte to feeling angry and jealous that Melisandre had ever had access to Stannis’ … she couldn’t say it … male parts.

“Ms Stark, I had hoped to see you,” Melisandre stood directly behind Sansa, forcing her to turn her entire body on the bench to speak. “I just wanted to check after that scratch yesterday. I sincerely hope that you weren’t harmed.”

“Why would Ms Stark be harmed?” a sharp, deep voice growled behind Brienne. Sansa whipped round to see Stannis standing next to Brienne.

Melisandre smiled politely. “We bumped into each other yesterday evening, entirely by accident, but I’m afraid one of my fingernails caught Sansa’s arm.”

Stannis reached across the table, forcing Gilly and Edd to dive to either side, his knee planted on the bench where Gilly had been sitting only a moment before. Stannis took hold of both of Sansa’s arms, just above the wrist, and held them before him for inspection. “Where were you hurt?” he demanded.

Sansa indicated her left arm and turned it over, so the Stannis could see a healing scratch along the vein on the inside of her wrist. “Melisandre did this to you?” Stannis barked at Sansa. He ran his finger alongside the length of the cut. A few tiny beads of blood welled up as it was disturbed. Melisandre licked her lips. “Why didn’t you say anything to me last night?”

Sansa tried to tug her arm free, and after a moment’s tug of war and meaningful glances, Stannis relinquished his grip. “It was only a scratch. Nothing to worry anyone else over.” Jeyne handed her a clean handkerchief.

“You should have reported this to me,” he retorted, disapproving.

“Why would she have done that, Field Marshal?” Jeyne asked, concerned for her friend.

Stannis shot Jeyne a withering look. “Because Melisandre likes to believe that she can dabble in the occult, and if she’s set her sights on Sansa, I want to know of it. It may be a load of tosh, but if she means Sansa ill, I want to know. Is that explanation enough, Nurse Poole?” he snapped.

Suddenly Bran’s voice came from behind Melisandre. Sansa whipped around in her seat to see her brother taking hold of the red witch’s arm. “I think you’re right to be concerned, Field Marshal,” he said. He slipped his hand into the pocket of Melisandre’s black skirt, pulling out the smoky blue bottle. “I saw her trying to slip something into my sister’s drink.”

Stannis looked murderous. Melisandre remained calm, while Jeyne threw her arm around Sansa’s shoulders and pulled her close. Stannis signalled two military police over from the end of the hall. “Arrest this woman,” he said. “I’d like her held in the dungeon cell. I’ll be down later to deal with it.” Bran handed the bottle to Stannis.

“Ms Stark, may I speak to you in private?” Stannis commanded, no question in his tone. His voice sounded like anger papered over with an insufficient amount of politeness. He held out his hand for Sansa to take.

Sansa was utterly confused by what had just happened, but she took Stannis’ hand and stood. She felt Bran’s hands on her shoulders behind her. “Don’t worry, Sansa, I’ll take care of this,” he whispered to her discretely.

Before she could follow Stannis out of the hall, Jeyne grabbed the sleeve of her cashmere jumper. “Sansa, don’t forget: condoms. Okay?” She nodded sagely and gave her friend’s arm a squeeze. “He’s all worked into a lather over something. Go enjoy that!”

 …

Stannis closed the door behind them, then locked the door to her room securely. Sansa wandered over to her dressing table dropping Jeyne’s handkerchief next to her hairbrush. Only a few drops of blood had needed absorbing; she could wash it and have it back to her friend on the morrow.

He came up behind her, brushing her hair aside and kissing her neck. “Sansa, forgive me. Melisandre is… she’s a problem. I didn’t realize that she might want to harm you, though. I don’t take her rubbish about witchcraft seriously, but I fear she means a threat to you. I’ll have the contents of this bottle tested.”

Sansa smiled to herself, and brought her face around to nuzzle into his jaw. “You’re not angry with me?”

“What? No!” He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck and turned her around to face him. “I’m really no diplomat, Sansa, I’ve told you as much before. I did not mean to imply that you were at fault. The fault is mine, for allowing her here, for ever being involved with her.”

Sansa shrugged. “I’m fine, Stannis. She didn’t hurt me.” _You didn’t hurt me_.

They sat in the armchairs by the fire, Stannis reaching out to twine their fingers together, absentmindedly stroking her palm or kissing the back of her hand as she told him about her day since they’d had to pry themselves from his bed. She’d spent the morning with Shireen, doing the accounts for the food and accommodation being used around the hotel by the troops. She outlined Shireen’s plan for a festive season for the men. Everyone knew that the Riverlands awaited, and the move could not be long in coming. Her great uncle was expected any day now.

“The men want to have a party to celebrate Christmas, and Shireen has decided to take this on as her pet project. She’s so kind-hearted and aware of people’s feelings, Stannis. It’s beautiful. So, will you come to the party she’s planning?”

“A party?” he looked a bit wary.

“The hotel will meet the cost, Field Marshal,” she said drily, and laughed as he visibly relaxed, “as long as you dance with me.”

“If you can guarantee some good music, then I’ll dance with you,” he dropped a light kiss onto her lips and opened his arms for her to sit with him, on his lap. He shifted as she snuggled closer to his crotch, pulling Melisandre’s bottle, still in his pocket, out of the way. He opened the bottle briefly to sniff at the contents, wrinkled his nose and restoppered the cork, setting the bottle on her table.

She wound her arms around Stannis’ neck and rubbed her nose against his. “Mmmm. My prince,” she giggled.

Eyes closed, enjoying his embrace, Sansa suddenly felt Stannis tense beneath her fingertips. She opened her eyes to find him glaring at her. “King,” he said.

Sansa drew back. Something had shut down behind his muddy, navy blue irises, like the man she’d just been kissing had left the room and she had her arms around his ghost. “Pardon?” she ventured, slowly.

“King,” he answered decisively, scowling at her. “Not prince.”

She unwound her hands that had been trailing through the hair at the nape of his neck, sliding her hands to his shoulders instead. “Very well,” she nodded, no longer meeting his eyes. “I just appreciated your offer to dance with me, is what I meant.”

Stannis now both scowled and looked nonplussed. “Dance with you? I don’t dance, woman,” he snapped. 

Sansa held her breath. She knew her eyes were clouding with tears, and she had no idea what King Stannis would think of such weakness. Or rather, she knew exactly what he’d think of it, and she tried to gain control of herself. “No, of course you don’t, how silly of me,” she nodded, still keeping her gaze demurely lowered.

The king fitted his hand around her jaw firmly and forced her face up for a better look. “Sansa, why are you crying?” he demanded. She felt the strength draining out of her legs. Not again, not after Joffrey and Ramsay. Please, not again. All that Bran had feared spun in her mind. She shifted automatically into appeasement. _Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t let him want to hurt me._ She thought that if Stannis wanted to hurt her, her heart might break for good.

“Sansa?” He made no move to brush away her tears. “Don’t cry, dammit woman.” She nodded furiously to show that she’d understood the order, swiping at her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.” She tried to swallow back her confusion. She tried to force a smile; she’d done it often enough before. “I am quite recovered. Please forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” he huffed. “I am aware that I do not excel at expressing feelings, or even recognising them in others,” he frowned, “but even I can see that I have upset you.” He exhaled an exasperated sound. “Look at me, Sansa. I am speaking to you.” She forced herself to look up, focussing on his downturned lips rather than his eyes. She was not strong enough to read the betrayal there. “If it is that important that I dance with you, I will.” He removed his hand from her jaw and caressed her hair, then the side of her face. “I don’t mean for you to cry. Ever.”

Sansa breathed slowly out and in, letting his words sink in, then she looked up at last to see if she could look through his eyes and find the man who’d taken her out to hear jazz and who read her bedtime stories. The fit of temper seemed to have softened into a mild disapproval of her tearfulness. His big hands were arranging her hair, smoothing it over her shoulders and down her back.

Which Stannis was she with? The King or the Field Marshal?

“I’m not sure why I should attend to such frivolities, but if it please both my intended and the princess…” _Still King Stannis, then_. She paused. _Intended_. He kissed her tears and then her lips, his fingers now just resting beneath her chin, like a suggestion that he look up at him, not a command. “You seem frightened, my lady. Are you frightened of me? You know that I would never harm you.”

She stared mutely at him for a moment, still uncertain. “No?” she finally hiccupped. She couldn’t quite disguise the question in her voice.

“My lady, you must know that I would never…” he looked to the ceiling, his temper rising again. “Of course not,” he barked at her, more loudly than he had intended. Sansa jumped.

Stannis drew away and circled the room once, scowling at the floor and mastering his temper and frustration before he returned to her. Sansa watched him move as though he were a dangerous animal; she kept her guard. On his return circuit, he led her to her bed and gently pushed her to sit on the edge, then he knelt on the rug, his large hands gripping her thighs through her skirt.

“Lady Sansa,” he enunciated slowly, taking great care with his choice of words, “I want you. Do not mistake me.” His eyes ricocheted between the hemline of her knee-length skirt and the neckline of her blouse. His fingers slipped down her thighs and played just beneath the edges of her skirt. He watched her breasts rising and falling in time with her too-quick breaths for just a moment too long, before finding her eyes again. “But I am no bastard Bolton. I will only take what is freely given. If you bid me leave, I will leave.”

Sansa nodded sadly. If she turned him down, he walk away from her. “And not return.”

“Not return? Woman, have you taken leave of your senses? You are the most beautiful girl in all the seven kingdoms, you are a trueborn daughter of Winterfell and the North, you are intelligent and charming and for reasons that pass my understanding, you have taken up some manner of attraction to my dour person.” He slipped his fingers slightly farther beneath her skirt, unclipping her stockings in front, then sliding his hands around to the back of her thighs and releasing the clips there, too. Throughout, he still held her gaze with his own serious expression. “If you ask me to leave, I shall do so, but I shall be back every day after, begging for the scraps of your attention, until you set Jon and the Tarth woman upon me and drive me from the gates.”

Sansa snorted out an ungraceful laugh and smoothed her fingers over his jaw. “I am not sending you away, Your Grace. I admit to a deep attraction to your person,” her fingers traced his lower lip, “and I do hope you will stay.”

Stannis’ fingers were already toying with the lace edging of her knickers, and at her words, he hooked his fingers around either side and began easing them down her legs. “May I?” he asked, his gaze now gone from her face and entirely focussed on her skirt, hiked up to mid-thigh.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she sighed, watching the movement of his hands beneath her skirt.

His breathing sped up as her knickers appeared from under her skirt. He slid them all the way down her legs, massaging his fingers into her legs as he went. He pulled off her heels along with the lacy underthings, then stroked his fingers back up her legs in search of the tops of her stockings. “You must call me Stannis.” His fingers were warm and sure, stroking between the flat of her lower belly and the juncture of her thighs, dusting lightly through the hair on her mound. “Sansa, will you let me?”

She had no idea whatsoever what he might be asking permission for, but it seemed an impossibly good idea to grant him access to do whatever he liked. She nodded, and he pushed her skirt up around her hips, then stroked his thumbs down, down, down between her legs. He repeated the motions a half dozen times, and Sansa fell back on the bed with a shudder.

“Spread your legs for me, beautiful girl.” It was the gentlest of orders, but Sansa knew an order when she heard one. She widened her legs and Stannis scooted forward between them. His fingers stroked down, lifted, stroked down again, nearer and nearer her centre with every pass. He brought his face close to her mound, then nuzzled his nose against a point that made her want to explode with pleasure. “You smell incredible, my lady,” he told her, a note of satisfaction in his tone. He kept his nose against that spot between her legs and Sansa could not help herself; she began to wiggle closer to him, arching her back. One of Stannis’ long arms climbed her body, pushing beneath her blouse and bra. “Remove your clothing, Sansa, take it off.” She had it open and her bra unclasped almost before he’d finished giving the command. His fingers found a nipple and pinched softly.

Sansa stopped holding it all in. She let out a needy moan, and her reward was to feel Stannis’ tongue against the same spot, circling and licking in turns. It seemed to go on forever, his tongue against that sacred spot and one hand on her breast, until his other hand let go of her hip. His fingers found her entrance and traced the sensitive, wet opening. She widened her legs further, setting her feet on his shoulders for something to push against. His muscles contracted and gave not an inch as she used the leveraged to grind her hips against him. Stannis slipped a finger inside and Sansa froze for a moment at the shock of penetration. But it lasted only a moment, as Stannis slipped the finger back out and turned all his attention to the swollen nub on flesh above.

Stannis worked patiently, never letting up, as she felt her body climb up a steep hill of increasing pleasure, unsure how to make the sweet torture of it break. When he finally began sucking her nub between his teeth, Sansa cried out, crested the hill at last, and moaned his name over and over. She wiggled away from his mouth, in the end, too sensitive for more.

Dark and hungry, Stannis lifted her beneath her arms. She realised that she had wriggled her bottom all the way to the edge of the mattress. He set her head down on a pillow at the head of the bed, and he shifted his weight, rising, one knee on the bed and the other on the floor. He unbuckled his belt and let his uniform trousers drop to the floor, whipping off his smallclothes with them. Sansa stared open-mouthed at the size of his member. She had never seen Ramsay’s, though she knew it had hurt, as he had intended it to. Stannis seemed intent on making it feel wonderful, but still… it seemed shocking in its size and strange in appearance. She tried to refer to it in her mind as a cock… as Jeyne had told her.

Jeyne… Jeyne said… Sansa tried to clear her thoughts as Stannis kissed and licked his way along her belly. He was sucking one of her nipples into his mouth, his blunt cock rocking against her centre, back and forth and that felt so good, he slipped along her wetness, she sighed and moaned and tried to shift her hips, unknowingly trying to take him inside because no matter how big and scary, she wanted his cock inside her…. and then she remembered: condoms. Jeyne said to ask about condoms.

But she’d said to ask the field marshal. And the field marshal was not here.

The king met the shift of her hips with a downward thrust, and all talk of condoms fled her mind. He only just breached the entrance, her body forced to give way to his. But instead of trying to close her legs and push him out, Sansa found herself opening wider and trying to rise up to meet him as he held back, held still.

“My beauty, my sweet Sansa… are you well?” His words stuttered, his brow covered in sweat, in the strain of holding back.

She tried to buck up against him before noticing his hand on her hip, holding her firmly to the bed.

“Please, Stannis, please, I want you,” she panted, and he did not wait for more. He slid in halfway, then pulled back to his tip. He took his time, pushing in by degrees, and Sansa could do nothing to speed his progress, pinned to the mattress by the hand on her hip. She knew when he had finally buried himself to the hilt. She could feel the soft press of his balls against her bottom, his body pressing and rubbing against her centre. She felt herself begin to climb that hill again and with every circle of his hips and deep thrust, she climbed higher.

Stannis had lowered his face to the curve of her neck and he panted against her skin as he pumped his hips against her. She caught his head in both of her hands and turned his face to hers, nipping at his lips, licking against him until he opened his mouth and let her lick and suck at his tongue, so deep in her mouth, stroking over the roof of her mouth and his cock even deeper, rubbing and thrusting until she felt herself fly again, clenching spasmodically around his cock, continuing the kiss, profound and desperate as she held onto her high.

He pulled his mouth from hers and plunged two of his fingers into her mouth instead, watching with dark, clear eyes as she sucked them instinctively. “Good girl, my beautiful girl,” he growled, shifted away and seemed to thrust harder and faster. “Can you take this?” he grunted, she nodded, sucking his fingers for comfort, “Keep your legs open. Seven… fuck.” He drove into her with that hard rhythm until Sansa’s legs began to cramp, but he seemed to sense this, and brought both hands to press on her inner thighs until her legs hit the bed. He banged her closer to the head board with every thrust, praising her nonstop for her wetness and tightness until he pressed himself deep and almost stilled. He jerked against her as he grunted out his release, spilling within her as deep as he could bury himself.

Sansa relished his weight as he lay over her, only slightly supported by his upper arms, kissing her over and again. They kissed until he softened, and she stretched her legs gratefully when he rolled to the side of her and pulled her over his chest. She rested the side of her face in his chest hair and sighed happily.

“My lady,” he kissed her hair, and if he intended to say more, she never had a chance to hear it. A knock at the door jolted them both.

“Field Marshal?” Davos called. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’ve news of Nazi movement in the Riverlands via Brynden Tully.” Stannis looked utterly confused for a moment, then seemed to snap out of a trance. Sansa propped herself across his chest and watched him closely.

“A moment, Col Seaworth,” he called. “I’ll meet you in my office.” He drew Sansa in close and kissed her deeply, holding her face very softly in his hands. Then he stood up abruptly with her in his arms and grinned at her.

“I’m sorry, I have to go, I feel guilty… leaving you like this.” He set her feet to the floor, keeping her body pressed close. Sansa did feel like crying for a reason she couldn’t pinpoint. She knew he would stay if he could; she knew he’d be back. But his seed was still dripping down her thighs, and she felt suddenly very vulnerable. She could already feel her mother and her septa clawing at the edges of her mind.

Stannis tried to cheer her then, as he pulled on his trousers and helped her into her robe. Then he twirled her around her bedroom, humming a few bars of Benny Goodman’s Sing, Sing, Sing. “I will dance with you at this party of Shireen’s, of course I will,” he smiled, still dancing her around the room.

“I’d be honoured, sir,” she ran her hand over his chest, his heart. He caught her hand up in his and kissed it, kept it pressed against his chest for a few more bars. Then kissed her lips and smiled at her, completely at ease.

“I suspect this will be a long meeting with Davos and Jon,” he said. “And I’m going to have this dopey grin on my face throughout. Shall I see you in the morning?”

Sansa brought her own hands up to frame his face and kissed him. He looked gratified and bit dazed as she pulled away. “No, come to me later, even if I’m asleep. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“Goodnight, I’ll see you later tonight,” he pulled her against him for a final hug, then walked to the door. “I adore you, Sansa,” he called back as he shut the door to her chamber behind him.

Sansa sat down heavily on his bed, the emotional whiplash of the last hour overwhelming her. She spotted Melisandre’s bottle on her table, and she snatched it up, wrenching open a window and flinging into the ice storm outside. Then she stumbled into the en suite and washed away the traces of what they’d done, the sweat and the seed and maybe some of the guilt. Dressed again, she ripped open the door to her chamber and set off down the corridor at a run, and she didn’t stop running until she found Bran in the library with Sam.

…

Sansa didn’t make much sense for the first few minutes after she burst into the library, raving about kings and potions and memories, but Sam wasn’t the type to push for logic when an understanding of emotion was called for. Bran seemed strangely impervious to his sister’s haunted look. They had been discussing surgery texts; Bran was keen for Sam to explain in detail how Bran’s paralysis had been reversed following his childhood fall. Sam had poured over illustrations and case studies with him for the last few nights, until Sam felt almost as though he knew as much as the illustrious surgeons who had written the books in the first place.

So it was Sam who stood up and gave Sansa a hug, combing his hand through her mussed hair and calming her enough to speak. She smelled strongly of the field marshal’s aftershave, and despite herself she winced when she sat down on the armchair Sam directed her to. She gave his hands a squeeze in both of hers, and asked if he’d mind if she spoke to Bran in private for a moment. Sam responded pleasantly that he’d be over in the far corner of the library, near the bank of window seats, if she needed him.

Still Sam could hear, just snatches, and Stannis’ name kept coming up. Sam hoped that the field marshal had not pressured Sansa; she seemed a sweet girl and had been through too much already. Whatever Bran said seemed to do the trick, calming her, and they pressed their heads together, looking for all the world as though they were plotting something of great importance.

Sam turned his attention back to the surgery texts. Bran had asked him whether or not the surgery could have been performed back in medieval times, had the knowledge been available, or whether it depended upon modern technology. A fascinating question, and Sam spent much of the rest of the evening looking for evidence one way or the other.

When Sansa left the library, calling out a goodbye, Sam dug the list of bets out of his shirt pocket. He ran his finger down his neat script until he came to the day’s date. It was late now. He’d tell Jeyne Poole in the morning that she’d won the money.

…

Bran walked with silent steps into the old part of the dungeons, where one very clean, electrically-lit cell remained, complete with a damp stone floor and some ancient, useless shackles drilled into the wall with a replica skeleton in their clutches. Ned Stark’s doing, a little faux-horror for the tourists. But the barred doors still locked tight with the original key, and so Stannis had decided to use the old cell for Melisandre.

Closing his eyes, he paused constantly, using his memory to spot the movements of the guards. He had the key buried deep in his pocket, a copy that only he and Sansa knew of. I am the Lord of Winterfell, he thought, and I’ll lock up and release whomever I please.

With the guards a long corridor away, refreshing their mugs of tea, Bran creaked open the old door and beckoned Melisandre to follow him. He relocked the cell with the skeleton tucked under Mel’s blankets.

The corridor let out into the far side of the yard, if you had a key to unlock it, and Bran had that, too. He motioned to Melisandre to remain quiet as they slipped through the yard and out a hidden side passage into the gardens. From there, even in the driving snow, it was a short walk to the edge of the woods.

Finally, Bran spoke. “We need to return, Melisandre, to our own time. Do you know how to do so?”

“We will return when the Lord of Light wills it so,” she responded quietly, confidently.

Bran sighed. “Has your lord been any more specific about what might trigger a return? Every day could be our last while they fight Cersei in the south.” He shook his head in frustration. “I cannot see beyond this time, and I cannot see beyond the wall at all.”

Mel kept her gaze unmoved and cautious as she followed Bran deeper into the forest. “The threat from beyond the wall. The Lord of Light can stop the army of the dead, through Stannis. But he must be himself – these modern men, they will not believe in the Night King, or other fairy stories.”

Bran tilted his head to one side. “I don’t know. Stannis has recalled his old self, even before your interference. He may be closer to belief than we think.”

“The world cannot wait upon your sister’s delicate nature to succumb. He must secure his line, and do so quickly. He must put a son in Sansa. I do not know how long this enchantment will last.”

“So you did send him to rape Sansa,” Bran replied dispassionately.

“Under the spell, she would have wanted it. Or at least not stopped it.”

“Until she woke up, broken and abused and subservient to her king?” Bran raised his brows.

“You do not see the whole picture: the flames demand an 8-month baby, conceived in _this_ moon’s turn, conceived beyond time, with king’s blood. I could take it early from her belly – it must be born at exactly 8 months, so I must know the precise time of conception. She will die, but I can save the boy; Stannis’ son is of the utmost importance to the realm.”

Bran nodded. “I see.” He came to a halt in a small clearing, about a mile south of the castle. The snow fell around them, enough to cover the tracks they had just left. Each time the breeze blew, the tree branches tinkled with icy clarity. “So for the good of the realm, Stannis defeats the Others and Sansa dies after you sink a knife into her pregnant belly.”

Melisandre spread her hands before her in a gesture of honesty. “I know these decisions are difficult, but the Lord of Light demands blood, and your sister can provide it. To save the realm of the living. It would be a worthy death.”

“So, that is your reading of our presence here? We will return once Sansa is pregnant? Or once her son is born and her blood shed?” Bran asked.

Melisandre looked calm and certain. “It could be either; I admit that the flames do not specify calendar dates.”

Bran nodded thoughtfully for a moment, then gazed into the woods and let out a long, low whistle. Mel heard the crunching of snow, the slow growl, the panting breath, before the beast emerged from the trees and into the clearing. Bran put his hand out and the great wolf nuzzled his hand. “Thank you for your insight into the future, Melisandre. The realm owes you a debt.” He patted the giant beast’s cold snout. “But this is 1944, and I reckon that I don’t owe you shit. Ghost, kill.”

Ghost moved so efficiently, so beautifully. Bran could scarcely believe how quickly he killed the witch, and almost before she had a chance to cry out, Ghost was back by his side, licking clean his bloody paws and muzzle until they were purest white again.

Just to be sure, Bran pulled kindling from the woods and lighter fuel and a book of matches from his pocket. He stayed with the body until the last trace had burned.

…

Stannis thought to slip back to Sansa’s room after his meeting. Brynden Tully had sent word – he’d left the bulk of his forces at Twinton Bridge, which he’d claimed for the Allied forces. A week before Tully had arrived, the Nazi chief Walder Frey and all of his forces had been defeated by a single, unknown assassin, according to the few – exclusively female – survivors. His soldiers now held the bridge; Tully himself had ranged north, encountering little resistance, and was now less than 12 hours from Winterfell by Jeep and lorry. He would arrive in the morning.

Jon and Stannis dragged themselves up the stairs towards bed at around 2am. Jon stopped by Bran’s room when they noticed the door open, the light on and Bran sitting meditatively by his window. Stannis wished them a goodnight and ducked out to check on Shireen, but she was sleeping peacefully. He kissed her cheek, as she turned away from such kisses when awake, but he could sneak them in as she slumbered. She clutched a soft toy to her chest – a grey wolf, a gift from Bran. Stannis adjusted her duvet and shut the door.

He swore softly as he rounded the corner to Sansa’s room. Jon had posted two men to stand guard outside her door as soon as they’d arrived in Winterfell, simply to make Sansa sleep easier and not from any fear that harm would befall her in a heavily defended, medieval castle. Stannis forgotten this. In order to go to her as she’d asked, he’d have to as much as admit to two soldiers that he was sleeping with General Snow’s sister. The entire regiment would know by breakfast.

Then again, claiming her before the entire regiment would keep other hands and eyes off of her. He ordered the soldiers from her door, pulling rank on General Snow when they protested, citing the general’s direct orders. As they left, pleasantly surprised at being dismissed early to their beds, Stannis opened the unlocked door.

Sansa’s window was open, but her bed was empty. He searched the room and her en suite – no sign. He nearly ran after the guards, but then he noticed that a tapestry had been pulled to one side, and a small, half-concealed door stood open beyond it. Stannis followed the passageway beyond it, down a narrow flight of stairs that opened just beyond the back door by the cloakroom where he had kissed Sansa the other morning.

The snow fell heavily all around him, but he could still make out a single set of bootprints through the garden. They led him across the paths and over the frozen pond, beyond into the woods. He had not thought to wear his greatcoat, as he had expected to be warm in Sansa’s bed by now, so he dashed back into the cloakroom and borrowed a coat, hat and gloves left behind. He hurried so that he wouldn’t lose the prints in the snowfall.

He found her in the old godswood, kneeling on the warm ground, her hands on the strange weirwood tree with its tragic, carved face. Stannis hung back, suddenly thinking that this was perhaps a poor idea: she had clearly wanted privacy, and he felt very keenly that he was intruding.

“Sansa,” he called softly, not wanting to startle her. She looked behind, following his voice, and her hood slipped from her hair as she turned. Sansa looked utterly at one with the red-leafed tree that spread its branches above her. He walked over and took her hand, kneeling beside her. She sank into him.

“You’re warm,” she snuffled, allowing her hands to burrow beneath his coat. She was toying with the clasp of her cloak, a beautifully-rendered wolf’s head in pewter.

“I’m not as warm as your bed, so I’m guessing that warmth isn’t what you’re after right now,” he responded, refusing to flinch at the feel of her cold fingers beneath his clothing. “Tell me, Sansa.”

“What?” she attempted.

He stepped away and knelt on the ground before her, drawing her hands down with him, allowing her to look down into his eyes. “Don’t. Just tell me. All of your unexplained lapses, your silences, I know that you are hiding some great secret… Whatever it is, I need to know it.” He turned her palm to his face and kissed it, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “You trust me.” It was a statement, not a question or an entreaty. “You trust me and you are right to. I would never betray you.”

She stood over him and trailed her fingers over through his short-cropped hair and over his face, finally resting them at the back of his neck. Finally, she brought his fingers to the clasp of her cloak. “The direwolf is the sigil of my house, as the stag is the sigil of yours.”

“Was,” he acknowledged hesitantly, “long ago. Centuries ago.”

“Weeks ago, Stannis. For me, only weeks.” Her red hair fluttered behind her, blending in his vision with the leaves above and behind her.

Stannis sucked in a breath and waited a beat before slowly letting it out. “You’d never seen a match, or even heard an aeroplane. That’s… not credible. Not possible, even if Joffrey locked you away, if Baelish locked you away.”

“They did not keep me confined to a windowless room. I ranged the gardens in King’s Landing with relative freedom and I would have seen these things, heard the radio, the music… if such things had existed.”

Stannis gripped her hips hard and pulled her onto his folded legs, his knees in the soft mossy earth beneath the weirwood. She straddled his lap, keeping her touch light on the nape of his neck while his hold tightened. He pressed his forehead to hers.

“How…”

She rolled her head back and forth against his, a gentle sign of negation. “I don’t know. I don’t understand how.”

“But… Jon is your brother. He knows you. And Bran. You have… always been here, Sansa,” Stannis felt his way logically through the puzzle in his lap. “I can remember Robert telling me when Ned had a daughter.”

“We are all of the same time. You, me, Jon, Davos, Sam, Bran, Shireen…”

“This is not possible,” he suddenly growled, his eyes meeting hers at a distance only a touch away from his own.

“Perhaps not, but it is so. I cannot explain it.” He felt her fingers searching for purchase on his overcoat, gripping him to her as best she could.

He shook himself free of her. Just ten minutes ago, Stannis could not have imagined a universe in which he did not want Sansa’s hands on him. Now he just wanted her to stop talking, stop the insane raving. He should have known she was mentally fragile; she’d cut off a man’s dick in front of him, for christsake. Fuck, what had he done? They’d not even used protection. She could be…

“Stannis, you must listen,” she began again.

He growled at that. “Don’t tell me what I must do, Sansa.” He circled his fingers around her wrists and forced her hands away from his person, taking two steps back towards the garden and tumbling her from his lap. His boots crunched into the circle of snow surrounding the weirwood.

“Stannis, please don’t leave. You said that I could trust you.”

He turned his back on that and left her sitting in the moss, stalking his way to the castle as he threw a retort over his shoulder: “But I didn’t say that I could trust you.”

…

Sansa sat very still beneath the tree, watching Stannis stomp angrily away. She’d let him in, let him love her… he’d promised her nothing, she realised, just an unwise word from a king he doesn’t remember being: intended. His intentions were so much horseshit. Just as Septa Mordane and her mother had always said, men would take what they wanted if allowed and then walk away.

He thought her mad, and he wanted nothing more to do with her. He’d already had what he wanted. He was probably already on his way to Melisandre’s cell, looking for a little more.

She stood up in a daze, heartbroken and angry. Horseshit, horseshit, horseshit, she repeated in her head as her boots kicked throw the drifts in the woods. She wandered without a destination in mind, the sound of her abandonment filling her mind and her vision obscured by tears. She walked a long way, long enough for her cloak to be soaking wet halfway up her legs. Her gloveless fingers clutched white and numb to keep the heavy cloak pulled tight.

She knew where she was headed now, chasing Bran’s words. Sansa hadn’t seen Jon’s direwolf since it was little more than a pup, but she would know any of their wolves, anywhere. She reached out her hand into the icy wind and whistled.

…

She wore the long cloak that she’d claimed was not her mother’s; the hood covered her hair. Her heavy winter boots were nearly invisible beneath the cloak, and she was shaking with cold and, he thought ruefully, probably indignation.  

Stannis had only barely been able to follow her tracks. The snow fell heavily around him and the sweep of her cloak wiped the path clear, but the relief at seeing her almost made him give away his position. He’d feared her lost in the woods, had almost turned back a dozen times for help. He’d not even made it through the door into the kitchens before his guts had turned over with guilt and longing; he’d made love to her earlier that day, the first experience for her outside a brutal assault by Bolton. And then he’d called her insane and left her alone, outside in the middle of a wintry night.

He did not deserve to still be breathing.

Spotting her in the moonlight, he pulled himself up. She stood silent and wary in a clearing southeast of the castle, in a dip that led to a creek about half a mile off. Uninhabited, lonely forest, too steep for farming or habitation. He had followed her silent hike with determined steps, but still it took over an hour in the icy weather to reach the spot. 

Sansa whistled, low and soft, her hand reaching towards the thick woods ahead of her.

A white shadow as tall as Sansa and broad as a horse appeared from behind the trees, its yellow eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Ghost,” she called softly. “To me.” The beast trotted over to her, panting happily, and nudged her hand. Sansa’s tears froze on her cheeks as she threw her arms around the beast’s neck. “Oh you beautiful boy,” she laughed.  

The animal flopped into snow beside her and she flopped down next to it, like a child with a beloved pet. Curling round her, the giant wolf sheltered her somewhat from the snow and ice. She snuggled into his snow-coloured fur, resting her head on the beast’s shoulder. She sneaked one arm from her cloak and stroked its head playfully. “Oh, Ghost,” she huddled closer to the wolf. She cried into the animal’s fur for a while, but Stannis could see her shaking with the cold. The wolf seemed the notice as well, for her stood and forced her to rise with him.

“Yes, quite so, I should be returning to Winterfell,” she patted his muzzle. Sansa stood in front of the wolf, scratching behind his ears and pressing her forehead between the wolf’s wideset eyes.  

“Stay safe and stay hidden, boy,” she smiled sadly. “I’ll be back to visit.”

She pulled the cloak tight around her and began the long march back towards the castle, the giant wolf at her heels to make sure she arrived safely.

Stannis flattened himself against the tree where he stood hidden, hoping that the raging storm had covered his tracks so that Sansa would believe herself to be alone. He watched her walk back towards the castle, remaining absolutely still and resolutely downwind until the giant wolf disappeared with her into the woods.


	12. Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. Stuff happened (mainly good, but time consuming). Anyway, onwards...

Stannis leaned against the tree until the snow and clouds cleared and he could see the stars clearly overhead. His watch claimed that Sansa and her wolf had left 15 minutes ago, though it felt much longer. His whole body had gone numb with the cold, and his mind whirred nonstop to process the new information. He trudged back through the snow, and just outside the godswood, before the edge of the garden, Ghost passed him, making his way back to the woods after escorting Sansa to the edge of the garden. Stannis stopped in his tracks; his hand felt for his revolver.

Ghost stopped as well, snarled lowly and walked a wide half-circle around Stannis’ still form. The wolf doubled back and twitched its ears forward, head to one side; Stannis could feel the wolf’s yellow eyes sizing him up. Finally, it approached, slow step by slow step, stretching its great head towards Stannis. He did not want to kill this animal that Sansa seemed to love and trust. He held the gun drawn but pointed at the ground; he would wait until the last possible moment, until he was sure of the beast’s intentions.

Ghost sniffed at Stannis, then slunk tightly around behind him. Stretching the cold nose to Stannis’ back, the beast pushed his whole weight against his shoulder blades, shoving Stannis hard and sending him stumbling in Sansa’s direction. When Stannis turned to look at Ghost, he growled and gave Stannis another push. Once the wolf had the man moving firmly in the correct direction, he disappeared into the trees and undergrowth.

Stannis willed his frozen limbs up the steps to the door, then stopped for a moment in the kitchen. Though his watch put the time at just past four, Aida was already at the stove, a tea kettle whistling and a batch of scones on the counter, fresh from the oven. He leaned his hand against the doorjamb and coughed some of the ice from his lungs.

“Field Marshal,” Aida acknowledged him, almost as cold as the weather outside. “I imagine you’ll be wanting something for our Sansa.”

Stannis just nodded and stepped forward, expecting Aida to make up a tray.

“I know she’ll be awake to enjoy it, as she came through here twenty minutes ago, frozen and teary. I’ve just made these,” she nodded to the scones, “special. I’ll make up a tray and you take it up. I expect you have some apologising to do.” The older woman raised her brow at him.

Stannis ignored that. The woman must know they’d been out there together – it’s not likely they’d gone on separate hikes through the woods in the middle of the night. “The tea and scones would be appreciated.” He glued his hands to the doorframe to stop any possible fidgeting and watched as Aida gathered cups and saucers, milk and sugar. Stannis closed his tired eyes for a moment, trying not to imagine Sansa in tears, sobbing onto the cook about the arse who’d shagged her and then told her he didn’t trust her. The tray nearly ready, Stannis had another thought: “Aida, do you have any lemon curd?” 

Aida grinned. “Good man, good man. You’re learning.” Stannis frowned, but accepted the tray with a grunt of thanks.

He used the main staircase to her room and knocked softly, then stood patiently in the hallway, holding the tea tray and waiting. He thanked his foresight in sending the guards away; he didn’t need his penance witnessed and reported upon. He knocked again, and thought for a moment that perhaps she had gone to sleep, but then he heard her quiet footsteps on the other side of the door.

“Sansa?” he called softly, not wanting to wake Jon, asleep in his room next door. “Sansa, please, let me in.”

“Go to bed, Stannis. I’m tired, I’m sleeping.” He swore he heard her forehead thunk against the heavy door.

“No you’re not. I turned around almost as soon as I’d left you, and I followed you into the woods.” He heard Sansa gasp in her shock from the other side of the door. “I saw the wolf.” Silence. “Please, Sansa. Let me in. Let me explain.” He waited. Silence. “I brought lemon curd.”

She sighed and shuffled, but the door unlatched. “It wasn’t locked, Stannis. I said it wouldn’t be.” She was damp from a warm bath, her cheeks and fingers pink, her feet wrapped in thick socks. She was wearing a modern silk robe, pulled tight and tied around her middle in a perfect bow slouched over one hip. “How do you even know that I like lemon curd?” She eyed the tray hungrily as he set in down on a low table between her two armchairs.

“You eat about half a jar every morning. It’s rationed and I don’t have any idea where Aida even finds the stuff. It’s hard to miss.” He set out the teacups and sat in the chair farthest from the fireplace. “Please sit, Sansa.” She had brushed out her hair after her bath. A few steamed strands floated around her face, and she pushed them out of her way in annoyance. She curled into the chair with her usual grace and avoided his gaze. Once she was seated, he sat in the chair directly in front of her. He tried to take her hands, but she subtly withdrew them.

“Sansa,” he began, the speech he’d been drafting in his head ever since he turned back to the godswood jumbling in his mouth. “I have an excuse for my behaviour, we both know that I do. But it was reprehensible to leave you in the woods, to suggest that I wanted nothing more to do with you, especially after what we had just shared. I am very sorry that I hurt you.”

“So you don’t trust me. That what you said, that you can’t trust me. And you don’t.”

He had his hands on the arms of her chair in tight grip. “It’s taken me a long while to trust you. You have been lying to me since your arrival.”

“You threatened to send me back to Tyrion. Then to have me shot.” Sansa accused in a clear voice.

“I didn’t trust who you were. There was always something wrong about your story… I knew that you were lying to me. And now, the truth is that… what? I’m not who I think I am. That it’s not 1944. No Nazis. No Lannisters…”

“The Lannisters are real. That threat is real.”

Stannis felt his teeth grinding together, and he made a conscious effort to relax. “You are asking me to accept that reality is not what I think it is. That I am not who I think I am.”

Sansa leaned forward so quickly that Stannis drew back a few inches instinctively. “I’m asking you to believe it because it is the truth,” she hissed. “You,” she waved her hands about between them, “you took me to bed, Stannis. I can’t believe that you… that we… that you were intimate with me if you did not trust me.”

Stannis made another, more successful, grab for her hands. He tried again with the speech. “I went to bed with you, Sansa, because I care very deeply about you,” he said through a jaw clenched almost too tight to form the words. _And because I’ve wanted to shag you for weeks, and you finally said yes_. He couldn’t quite believe he’d managed to say the right set of words out loud and hold back the others. He stroked his thumbs over the backs of her hands, then raised one hand to his lips and pressed a long kiss into her palm. “I do, truly, care for you, Sansa. I know we have a great deal to discuss, but please know that my feelings for you have not changed. I told you that I adore you, and I meant what I said.”

When Sansa shifted gracefully from her own chair and into Stannis’ lap, he felt a flood of relief and gratitude. The weight of her seemed real and substantial and proof that she’d forgiven him. She drew her arms around his shoulders and began stroking her fingers along the line of his shirt collar at the back of his neck. She leaned her forehead against his and spent a few long moments considering his eyes, until Stannis felt that he might begin to fidget unacceptably under her scrutiny. But whatever she saw in his face seemed to satisfy her, because the next thing he felt was a kiss.

Stannis stopped thinking about the wolf and the Dragon Age and the nature of reality, because Sansa was kissing him into the chair, pushing back on his shoulders and sliding her tongue into his mouth. He gathered her up, slid both hands under the curve of her arse and pulled her closer. He dropped both hands to her thighs and began hitching up the hem of her skirt, little by little, as they kissed. She was unbuttoning his uniform jacket and then his shirt, sliding her hands along his abs and chest once the shirt gave way. He tugged open the simple bow on her robe and slipped his hands beneath it, caressing her breasts through the thin material of her nightgown.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked as she stood and tugged him to his feet.

“I’m not entirely certain,” she said. Stannis planted his feet onto the floor and refused to budge when she pulled his lightly towards the bed. She turned and regarded him, attempting again to pull him to her. He stayed where he was. Sansa heaved another heavy sigh. “Do you want to discuss it all right now? I’m exhausted, Stannis. You promised me that you’d come back to bed when you could.”

The room had begun to lighten with hints of dawn by the time they both crawled back under the covers. Stannis kept stroking his hands over her skin, afraid she might decide to run from him if he gave her too much space. He settled her above him, lifting off her nightgown and watching as she nervously tried to figure out what he wanted her to do. It didn’t take much to coax her across his hips, where he could feel how ready she was for him. He kicked out of his trousers and pants, then let her rub against him until her eyes closed and she made those happy, aroused little noises that melted away all his restraint. The slide of her grew slicker and warmer. When she began punctuating her sighs with ‘please, Stannis’, he readied himself to slide into the heavenly wetness he remembered from last night. Then he remembered that he shouldn’t have been able to feel the wetness, because he should have been using protection.

“Dammit,” he exhaled. “Sansa, sorry, I just need to…” Stannis nearly unseated her when he reached over the side of the bed, groping around the floor for his trousers. He dug around in his pockets until he grinned, triumphant, and produced a little foil packet from his rummaging. Her eyes went wide as he began sliding the condom down; her incredulous look brought to mind her face when she’d seen carbonation in water.

“Is this all right, Sansa? Are you all right?” He gathered her closer, because if he let her stare in horrified fascination at his condom-clad cock any long, she might put him off the whole event. She sighed as he kissed her and let her nipples rub across his chest. “It will stop me from making you pregnant.”

Sansa just nodded, nuzzling his neck, so he raised his legs and shimmied her into place above him. He gripped her hips, lifted her into position and encouraged her to slide down.

“I forgive you, for earlier” she smiled, eyes opening just a fraction to meet his gaze. He didn’t want to dwell on his less than noble actions, all the things she already had to forgive. He thrust up into her as she rocked gently in a slightly different rhythm. He did not want to follow her lead, so when at last she lay across his chest and gave in to his pace, he made sure to sneak his fingers between her parted thighs, brushing and circling. The wetness gratified him, her warmth inviting and completely open to him. He moved faster, not pulling out far, but not simply rocking. The sensation had him teetering on the edge, even as she hitched a quick series of high-pitched breaths, squeezed her inner muscles around him and then relaxed in a sated heap on his chest.

“Beautiful,” Stannis muttered, then gripped her hips and held her on his cock as he flipped her over to lie on her back beneath him. He sought leverage and moved harder, pushing himself towards his pleasure. He knew that he was talking, probably utter rubbish, possibly rather obscene, but it seemed to encourage her, and she clung to him and moved her hips to meet his thrusts. He heard her every whisper, for more, for something she didn’t seem able to describe or ask for.

He came of a sudden, just there, and kept his rhythm through it as Sansa panted out another release beneath him. She kept kissing him back, long past them both shuddering through their climaxes. He removed his hold on her lower back and hips, running his palms over her arms and back and hair as he lay down next to her on the mattress. Sansa seemed to fall asleep almost before he could arrange her in his arms, her nose pressed to chest, his hand curled around the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair.  

Stannis carefully set the condom to one side of the bed. He lay awake for a while longer, turning her words over in his mind. He still didn’t know how to reconcile believing her story with the weight of reality. Electric lights existed. And matches. And mass-produced, carbonated drinks. And jazz. They weren’t magic, or illusions, and everyone around him except for Sansa agreed on that.

But that wolf - Ghost she’d called him - he was real too. Stannis felt at a loss again as Sansa’s breathing evened out against his shoulder. He couldn’t mention this to Davos or Jon. Turning it over again in his mind, Stannis suddenly thought of one person who might be able to discuss this without thinking him insane. He closed his eyes and let his cheek rest against Sansa’s hair and drifted off to sleep to the pleasing feeling of a plan echoing in his head.

It wasn’t until much later that Stannis realised that while he’d declared his feelings for her, she’d done nothing like the same thing.

…

The pounding on the door had mixed in with Sansa’s dreams, so that it seemed to take her all the longer for her to shake herself from sleep. She felt warm and snug, extra blankets heaped atop her, the weight of them comforting against the blinding of a snowstorm outside the window. She could make out Stannis’ deep voice resonant and clear in the background, and an answering murmur in Davos’ harsh accent from the doorway. She could only make out half of Stannis’ body as it blocked any view into or out of the room, but he was wearing his trousers and an untucked shirt.

The door clicked shut and Stannis reappeared, running a hand through his short, black hair, making it stick up at all angles. His shirt was buttoned wrongly. He yawned, and Sansa smiled at the charming chink in his tough exterior.

“Sorry, Davos woke you. I’ll have him court martialled.” He walked over to the table by the fireplace and spread the lemon curd thickly across one of Aida’s scones. Sansa sat up against the cushions and soft pillows on the bed, pulling the duvet across her chest. Stannis sat on the edge of the bed and offered up the scone, holding his hand beneath her chin to catch any crumbs. Grinning, she took a big bite, then watched him do the same. He wrinkled up his nose at the sugary curd.

“Too sweet for you?” she asked, snatching back the last of the scone. “I didn’t say I’d share, so it’s your own fault for stealing a taste.” Stannis looked almost chagrined at her words, his mouth clenching tight. “Stannis, I wasn’t being serious,” she shook her head at him.

He seemed to force a smile and leant in to kiss her. “It tastes better on you,” he said impulsively, then looked shocked that he’d said that, then changed the subject. “Your great-uncle Brynden has arrived. Davos is plying him with coffee and toast, but he’s anxious to meet me, and of course you and Jon and Bran.” He made a grab for her waist that she hadn’t seen coming, so she squeaked when he rolled himself over her and onto his back on the other side of the bed. She ended up lying atop him, chin propped on one arm, tangled in the robe she’d been trying to put on, looking into his eyes. “I would stay here with you if I could,” he said, the words grating from him.

“You’re only saying that because we’ve had about 2 hours of sleep,” Sansa answered drowsily. “But I must be up, too. I have a castle to run, you know.” She looked at him sharply. “Even if it has been modernised almost beyond recognition. And turned into a _hotel_.”

Stannis raised an eyebrow. “Well, thank God for the Winterfell Hotel, then, and its brilliant manager, who has been able to accommodate our troops.”

“Winterfell would not have turned away the loyal bannermen of the rightful heir to the Iron Throne,” Sansa sat up, straddling his body and looking deadly serious. “We would have given you our last loaf of bread, our last stick of firewood, Your Grace, to reclaim the realm from the Lannisters.”

Stannis’ jaw, then most of his body, tensed at her words. He does not believe me, yet, she thought, and I probably sound insane. She leaned back down and set her fingertips at the side of his head, brushing along his face and head, gentle and slow. “And I’m sure I’d have given everything for my king, now that I have him in my bed,” she smiled, and kissed along the stubbled line of his jaw.

“Sansa,” he breathed out. He seemed on the cusp of either answering her talk of the Dragon Age, or undressing. He caught her wandering hands as they drifted over his biceps and pressed kisses into her fingertips. “Your uncle is waiting.  We must wash and change our clothes.”

With a last kiss to his lips, she admired the smile gracing his face. She wondered if the king would be so free with his smiles; she doubted it. “Let us be up and about, then. Has Davos told Jon and Bran of our uncle’s arrival?”

She drifted towards the bathroom, but Stannis hung back, and he seemed to her a little uncertain of himself suddenly, a little unsure if their level of intimacy afforded him the right to follow her into the bath. “Jon, yes. But I don’t know if he’s seen Bran. Um, shall I wait here for you to finish washing?”

How unheard of, she thought. She could not imagine a lord husband freely watching her as she washed, or cleaned her teeth or dressed. But Stannis, well, she could not imagine _not_ inviting him in. It simply felt right. She felt almost like crying at the thought of him leaving her for the day, after all that had passed between them, and she didn’t want to be parted from him even for the offered privacy.

She let her robe drop from her body and smiled at him, holding out her hand. “Come in, let’s get ready together.”

…

Bran found Sansa in the great hall, not breaking her fast, but looking for him. He’d been awake since Brynden arrived with a clatter and commotion not long after dawn. Ygritte had refused him entry to Jon’s room, complaining loudly that Davos had already woken Jon and forced him down to meet his uncle. In a temper, she shut the door in his face.

Bran helped himself to a bowl of porridge before Sansa could chase him back to his modernised hotel room, with its boring, bland décor and oversoft bed. Her heels were muted by the carpet underfoot, her neat grey dress buttoned and zipped and perfectly tailored. Even in this life, Sansa had an impeccable sense of style. She carried herself like the queen she would very soon be. Well, as soon as they could find a way out of this timeline. If the Army of the Dead didn’t kill them all first.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Sansa sank onto his bed. Before she could start talking, Bran cut in: “Melisandre’s dead.” Sansa’s head snapped up, her eyes wide open now. “I led her into the woods and Ghost killed her on my order. Don’t worry – no one knows but us.”

“But Stannis will find out. Do you want me to lie to him?” Sansa stuttered, twisting her hands.

Bran looked at her sharply. “I am your brother, Sansa, your pack. Would you turn me in just to stay in the king’s good graces? Has your loyalty already gone over to House Baratheon?”

Sansa shook her head, staring at him helplessly. “I am a Stark first and always. But I don’t like lying to Stannis. He feels that trials and process are very important.”

“You’d best get used to lying to kings, Sansa. They’ve not had our best interests at heart so far.”

“Stannis is not Robert, or Joffrey, or Cersei…”

“No, you weren’t sleeping with any of them. It’s because he’s your lover that I got rid of Melisandre; she was trying to manipulate the both of you.”

Sansa sighed. “I know, Bran, and thank you for protecting me. But I don’t think we need to lie to this king. I think we need him on our side.”

Bran looked irritated with this. “Of course it’s best to have the king on our side. But to accomplish that we can’t be entirely honest. He doesn’t know who you really are…” At Sansa’s stricken look, he stopped. “Hells, Sansa, did you tell him?” She only nodded.

He sank onto the bed next to her and put an arm around her. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I guess he didn’t take it well?”

“He doesn’t know how to take it. Stannis is all about proof and facts.” She let out a hiccup and a few tears.

Bran hugged her closer, patted her back. “I don’t understand how Stannis Baratheon can bed you without wedding you. It seems unlike him.”

“He’s not usually the king, though, he’s Stannis, and he’s modern… he’s different. Not a different person – he’s still obsessed with his duty to the country and his honour and integrity, and he’s marginally more polite and open – but he’s hardly reciting poetry or singing ballads. If I gave him a favour, he’d use it as a handkerchief, just to make sure it had a practical application.”

They talked for another 30 minutes, trying to puzzle out how to snap themselves out of this strange new reality, and thy still hadn’t come up with a solution to the problem. Telling Stannis about the past hadn’t woken him from the dream. Sansa wasn’t about to mention it, but having sex with him hadn’t worked, either. King Stannis implying his intention to marry her hadn’t woken him.

Bran heaved a sigh, “I suppose I should find myself a sword and challenge Stannis; he must marry you now to preserve your honour.” She laughed.

“Bran, maybe we could tell Jon. Ghost is here, maybe that means the key is Jon.”

“Sansa, the stuff that I haven’t told Jon won’t fit on a postcard. We can’t just spring this on him.”

“You know that you speak strangely now?” Sansa accused, irritated with her younger brother.

Bran shrugged. “I speak like someone born in 1928, which the majority of my memories support. I was educated in this time. We helped run a hotel. But mostly it’s like my actual memories of life have been dressed up in modern accessories: the clothing is different, but Mum and Dad’s relationship is exactly the same. Mum’s disdain for Jon, her insistence on you and Arya looking pretty and playing instruments and sewing, her love for all of us: it’s all essentially the same.”

Bran considered telling her about the Dead, about the Night King. But she seemed a fragile today, uncertain of herself. He held back.

“Come then, sister. We must go find our uncle, and see if he remembers anything.”

….

Stannis did not go straight to Brynden from Stannis’ room. He had no space in his head for strategizing, not when his head was still full of Sansa and Ghost and the Dragon Age. He needed to explore some of his questions, and he had only one thought on who might help him. He knocked loudly and waited a moment, finally announcing himself in a strong voice. He heard murmurs and a scuffle from within.

“Giantsbane,” he greeted as the door opened, raising an expectant eyebrow until the man stepped to the side and allowed him entry to the room.  “Major Tarth,” he nodded to the flushed and hastily-dressed woman in the doorway of the bathroom. “I need to speak to Giantsbane. Privately.” Brienne bobbed her head, grabbed her shoes and hastened from the room with an embarrassed salute. Tormund was quicker, grabbing her round the waist and planting a sloppy kiss on her lips as she tried to leave.

Stannis kicked shut the door as she ran down the hallway. Tormund sat on the edge of the bed and gestured magnanimously towards an armchair. “Field Marshal, a good morning. For us both, I reckon,” he grinned as he leaned into Stannis’ personal space and plucked away something caught on a medal near his shoulder. Tormund smirked as the long, red hair gripped between his thumb and forefinger twisted in the sunlight. Stannis snatched it back, and gave the man a hard stare. “What could possibly trouble you, Field Marshal, when you’re carrying around a souvenir like that?”

“A wolf is troubling me, and I want some answers.”

Tormund sobered immediately. He leaned forward over his knees. “You’ve seen it? The direwolf?”

Stannis gripped the arms of the chair until his fingers hurt. “A direwolf is a mythical creature. No evidence, not even fossils…”

“But you saw it? All white, near tall as a mare?”

Stannis nodded gruffly. “I saw it.”

Tormund sat back and whistled low. “Like a folk tale come to life, eh?”

Stannis seized on that. “What do you know of these creatures?”

“My gran told me plenty about direwolves and dragons and Children of the Forest growing up, but those were stories,” Tormund shrugged. “It’s as credible as seeing a dragon fly overhead, you know? Direwolves were associated with this place, though, with the long-ago folk who lived at Winterfell. There were supposed to be able to control wolves, speak with them. In some of the stories, the Starks of Winterfell could even see through the eyes of their wolves.”

“But that’s nonsense.”

“I would’ve said direwolves wandering the woods was nonsense till I saw one myself. Ygritte saw it, too. We took Jon out, but we couldn’t find it. He thinks we’re mad.” Tormund chuckled to himself.

Stannis fought the urge to grind his teeth. “What of the Starks and the direwolves. What do you know?”

Tormund scrunched his bushy, red eyebrows together, deep in thought. “There is a story of a white wolf, the creature of a dragon prince. Never made sense to me, why the dragon prince had a wolf. There was a king of the northern folk, called the Young Wolf – seems to me that was a different story. But this white wolf must have been important enough for the echoes of that story to reach through all this time. Gave Ygritte and I the shakes, seeing him, remembering the tales. The dragon prince, though, he did have some connection to a stag king. Or did he?” Tormund shook his head. “No, wait. The stag king fell in love with the wolf princess, that’s it. Maybe Ygritte can remember…”

“No,” Stannis snapped. A stag. Wolves. A dragon. Impossible. “This conversation stays in this room.”

Tormund looked at Stannis thoughtfully. “Field Marshal, if you don’t mind me asking, what about this has you so worried? You’ve gone whiter than the wolf.”

Stannis stood abruptly and nodded to Tormund, who was still leaning back on the bed, considering the commander. “Never mind, Giantsbane. Thank you for the information,” he waved distractedly to Tormund as he opened the door to leave. “I have a battle to plan and a war to win and no time to puzzle indigenous tales.”

He slammed the door behind him and marched off to find Brynden Tully. In the back of his mind, though, he could still hear Sansa’s soft voice: “Stannis of House Baratheon.”


	13. The Day After The Night Before

Stannis stopped in the corridor a few steps short of his office. Even from this distance and through the heavy door, he could hear Tully berating his nephew: “How could you let that man near your sister? She is 19, for fuck’s sake! I’ve been here for a matter of hours and even I know that he’s in bed with your little sister. What are you doing about it?”

“Uncle, Sansa is an adult…”

“She is an orphaned child! Her father and mother are dead, Robb is dead. You are supposed to protect her!” Brynden Tully fumed. “The commander takes a fancy to her and no one dares tell him no? Was she even given the choice to tell him no?”

“I have protected Sansa. Baratheon has not forced himself on her. He asked her on dates, she went willingly,” Jon tried to explain calmly.

“Dates? Is that what the young folk are calling it now? Davos went to fetch him from her bedroom at 7am.”

“Uncle Brynden, you cannot tell Sansa what she is and is not allowed to do with a man. She is legally…”

“Oh, screw your ‘legally’ this and ‘of age’ that. He is twice her age…”

“He is not.”

“He seems older than I am!” Tully shouted. Stannis flinched.

“Not to Sansa. And it is her opinion that counts.”

Stannis decided that he’d heard enough. Jon, at least, did not outright object to his relationship with Sansa, and he could work with that. Steeling himself, he tried to remember Sansa’s crash course in diplomacy as he wrenched open the door just that little bit too violently.

Tully turned his anger on Stannis as soon as he clocked him coming through the door. “Ah, good, I see that the field marshal has arrived at last. Sleeping in today, are you? Alarm clock not working in Sansa’s room?”

Stannis refused to be drawn. “Gen Tully,” he nodded in acknowledgement and rounded his desk to sit in his leather chair, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “I regret that I had some business to attend to before our meeting.”

“And what was that business? Fucking my teenaged niece?”

Diplomacy, he reminded himself. He found himself growling anyway. “I will not discuss my private life with you, and I certainly won’t discuss Ms Stark’s private life with you. You may ask her any questions you have, and if she chooses to answer you, so be it.”

“Dammit, Stannis, you cannot expect me to sit by and let you turn Cat’s little girl into a…”

“I would advise you to stop right there, general, before words leave your mouth that you cannot take back,” Stannis snarled. “I will not sit quietly while you insult her.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Uncle, we can meet later with Bran and Sansa. Perhaps now we should focus on the Riverlands.”

Tully threw himself back in his chair. “I thought you’d all quite forgotten the war, holed up in Ned and Cat’s hotel for weeks. Or were you just hoping to let the Nazis have a nice Christmas?”

Stannis tried not to reach across the desk and punch the man. “The fleet we obtained from Manderly will be ready to sail within days,” he said. “While a part of the fleet retakes Dragonstone, we will advance on the Riverlands. Danaerys Targaryen will provide air support and attack Nazi positions near their stronghold at Riverrun. I will have her set up an airbase at Twinton, as you have that area secured. Did you find the assassin who took out the Freys?”

“No, he escaped a good week before we arrived at the castle. It could be part of some Nazi infighting. Our intelligence has been sketchy over the last couple of months.”

Stannis nodded. Varys had been feeding them information, but he had been forced to flee. “What of Casterly Rock?”

“Tyrion Lannister has the town, but it’s only lightly guarded. Targaryen claims that he is sympathetic to our cause. Certainly his sister doesn’t trust him – that’s why he’s nowhere near King’s Landing.” Tully shrugged. “Maybe we should ask my niece what she knows of her former husband’s leanings.”

Stannis gestured to Davos, who was silently taking notes. “Col Seaworth, please find Ms Stark. We could use her input.” As Davos left, Stannis looked to Jon. “We could take Casterly Rock first, if either a sea or air approach is safe enough and if Lannisport is unlikely to attack. If we could land forces there, we could attack the Riverlands from north and south.” He turned back to Tully: “Who holds Riverrun?”

“Jaime Lannister, still. Heavily defended. The surrounding countryside fear him.” Tully shook his head. “At the moment, there is no resistance to our advance between here and the Twins. We control the Bridge. If you treat with Baelish in the Vale, we might add their forces to an assault down the East Coast, or use them to secure the north as we march south.”

The men continued to pour over a map of Westeros, trading strategies, until Sansa arrived. She wore the blue wool skirt and jumper that Stannis had buttoned and zipped her into after their fling in her bathroom. She now had her glorious hair tied back in a simple ponytail. He felt himself starting to harden, unbidden, beneath the desk, thinking of her soft, wet skin beneath his hands only a couple of hours ago. How he’d coaxed her to spread her legs for him one last time in the bathroom. He’d found another condom packet in the pocket of the unbelted trousers he’d been wearing when he followed her to the bathroom, and he’d just let his trousers and boxers down just enough, and she’d wrapped her bare legs around him, propped against the sink. He’d had both hands full of her arse, supporting her as she clung to him with her arms around his neck, panting into his shoulder.  

Sansa’s current squeal of delight shocked him out of his pornographic recall. “Uncle Brynden!” she gushed, allowing herself to be drawn into a bear hug.

“Sansa, my darling niece, let me look at you. My God but you are the spit of your mother.” Sansa began tearing up at his words. “She would be so pleased to know that you and Jon and Bran are back here at Winterfell. So proud.”

Stannis found himself almost smiling at the man’s words, because they were making Sansa glow. She looked so happy and pleased with her Uncle’s praise, and Stannis found himself forgiving the man for his earlier harshness, now that he saw none of it directed Sansa’s way.

Jon and Sansa and Tully caught up for a few minutes, during which Stannis and Davos remained studiously silent. Finally, Sansa sat next to her brother and smiled across the desk at Stannis. He opened his mouth to explain, but Gen Tully cut in: “Sansa, we need to ask something of you, and I know it might be difficult for you. We need to know about Tyrion Lannister.”

Jon reached out and took her hand, and Stannis narrowed his eyes. Somehow, he was offended that Sansa’s brother and uncle had been cast in the role of sympathetic protectors, and the distance across his desk suddenly felt like miles. By the time he bit back his jealous reaction, Sansa was mid-explanation.

“He felt a loyalty to his family, but he disagreed with Nazi policy. I mean, obviously he did. He would be dead given Nazi pograms against anyone born as Tyrion was. We stole away separately when Joffrey was murdered, and Tyrion shot his father dead before escaping. Is he really holding Casterly Rock and Lannisport for them?” Sansa looked over to Stannis with this question. He just nodded in response.

“We want to take Casterly Rock and Lannisport from the Nazis before moving on Riverrun,” he said. “Jaime Lannister holds Riverrun.”

“He would betray Cersei in a heartbeat, and the Nazi Party even faster. But not Jaime. He loves Jaime,” Sansa replied, without overmuch emotion. Stannis was relieved to see that she could talk about this part of her life without it causing her any distress.

Jon squeezed her hand in his. “Sansa, how would you feel about contacting Tyrion? You might be able to begin a negotiation with him.”

Sansa looked a bit nervous at that, and she glanced over at Stannis again. “You would need to think about what you’re going to offer him, how you’ll deal with Jaime. He will not go along with any plan that puts Jaime in danger.”

“Seeing as I’m going to put a bullet between Jaime Lannister’s eyes myself, that’s going to be a pisser to get round,” Tully shot back. Sansa blushed.

Stannis ignored Tully’s bombast; no one would kill Jaime Lannister without his express command, and he’d make damn sure that Tully understood that. He knew how to keep his generals in line. Jon still held Sansa’s hand, reassuring her that she did have to speak to Tyrion, that if she did not want to be involved, they would find another way.

“No, Jon, I want to help. I want to end this war, and I want to see Westeros free of the Nazis,” Sansa insisted. Brave girl, Stannis thought, failing to entirely suppress a soft smile directed at her. Would she come to his room tonight? Right, the war.

“Let us get this information from Tyrion Lannister today. I will direct Targaryen to bring her Essosi air force to the Twins within the next days. We will need some forces from the Vale to provide an eastern front, and we can box in Jaime Lannister in the Riverlands. We will meet again as soon as we have word of Casterly Rock and Baelish.” Before Stannis could finish his thought on Baelish, Edd Tollett was knocking on the office door. He snapped to a salute as soon as he entered.

“Field Marshal, generals, Ms Stark,” he began, then addressed Stannis, “I’m afraid I have bad news of the prisoner, Melisandre. She’s scarpered, sir. The guards found her cell empty this morning, the door unlocked but closed.”

Stannis could not contain his temper. “She escaped? A lone woman in the middle of an ice storm? Get your men out there and find her, Major. Get Ygritte on it immediately; she has experience tracking in these conditions. Gen Snow, please go oversee the search. Gen Tully, I am sorry to cut short our time, but we will contact Tyrion Lannister today and I will speak to Targaryen.”

Tully nodded, and then he and Jon hugged Sansa goodbye. Sansa, who Stannis noticed had drained of all colour at the news about Melisandre, made to leave as well. Stannis let his voice ring across the office authoritatively: “Ms Stark, remain seated. I need to speak to you.” He remembered that she was his lover. “Please.”

After acknowledging the salutes of his generals and Davos as they left, Stannis turned to Sansa, to apologise for her attacker having escaped from his custody, but something about the look on her face pulled him up short. He supposed he’d been expecting fear, or anger, or disappointment, but instead she looked – huh – he didn’t quite know what to make of that look. Then he immediately felt like he had that first day he’d seen her in Jon’s tent, like he’d chosen to malign an angel by suspecting her motives. Then he remembered that she had indeed been lying to him, and possibly still was, and that she had murdered a man with a knife she’d stolen off Stannis’ own person.

“Sansa, do you know anything about Melisandre’s disappearance?” he asked sharply.

Sansa went a shade paler and stared at him without nodding, shaking her head or speaking. He leaned forward over the desk, his hands gripping the edges, knuckles white. “Sansa, I insist that you speak to me. What do you know? Did she escape?” Sansa drew herself up, her stare more defiant now than frightened. He found himself leaning even further over the desk. “Did you help her to escape?” She met his eyes but made no move. “Is your brother going to find her alive, Sansa?” She flinched, just the smallest twitch.

“Goddammit!” he yelled, bringing his fist down heavily on the table.

“I killed her,” Sansa volunteered, not a quiver in her voice.

“Really?” Stannis replied drily. “And when did you do that? You’re telling me that right after we were intimate, you went to the library – you see, I ran into Cpt Tarly earlier, who mentioned he’d seen you last night while I was meeting with Jon and Davos – then you went to the kitchens for at least another hour – Aida told me you’d been working late last night – so between all of this and me finding you in the godswood two hours later, you snuck to Melisandre’s cell and somehow murdered her and then hid the body? Or led her away and murdered her elsewhere? That’s your story?”

“I, ummm,” she faltered.

“Jesus, Sansa, I hope the fate of the nation never hinges on you holding up under interrogation,” he shook his head and then stood up from behind his desk, gesturing for her to follow him to the small sofa at the back of the office. Her stunning eyes had already filled with tears and she was smoothing down her pristine skirt nonstop, but she followed and curled onto the sofa next to him. He caught her hands in his and very gently pulled her towards him, until her head was resting on his chest. “You cannot continue to lie to me, Sansa.” He used one finger to tilt her chin towards him, to meet her eyes. “I fully accept that your lies are not sinister in intent. I might be a besotted fool, but I actually do believe that you care for me.”

She shook her head, which shook free a few of the tears, and they slid down her cheeks. “I really do care for you, Stannis.” Stannis nearly missed the rest of her confession as his heart started beating rapidly at her words. She met his eyes with complete sincerity. “But after what I told you in the godswood, you already think me mad, and there’s so much more I don’t feel I can tell you.”

Stannis tensed at the implication that he thought her crazy. “I don’t know what to think about what you’ve told me. That’s still all new, and I need time to work through it. That doesn’t mean I think you’re insane.” Sansa was starting to tremble, making him feel like her persecutor. “Damn it, beautiful girl, please don’t cry. If we truly” - he took a deep breath – “belong in the Dragon Age, then I imagine there are dangers that are not immediately apparent to me?”

Sansa sniffled. “Only from people who also remember. Like I do,” she said in a small voice.

Sitting back to steal a better look at her, Stannis pushed: “Did Melisandre remember? Did she think I was the king, too?” He felt himself holding his breath, waiting for her answer. Sansa gave him a small nod, refusing to meet his eyes. “And someone killed her, someone who also knows, because she was a threat? Was she threatening you?”

“Me, and also you, I think,” Sansa said clearly, tearfully. “I never knew exactly which side she was on. I’d never met her until she showed up here.”

“Right,” he nodded slowly, taking it all in. “So you didn’t kill her?” She shook her head, and he continued: “But you know who did?”

Despite the tears, her face returned to defiant. “I cannot tell you that, Stannis. Just understand that you are better served by her death than her life.” She rearranged herself onto her knees on the sofa, then took his face in both of her hands and pressed her forehead to his. They breathed in and out for a few moments, her pretty lips whispering to him: “Please believe me. Please trust me.”

Stannis felt a part of himself want to push her away in a rage, to call the guards to throw her in a cell until she bowed to his will, to throw Jon in a cell until she caved and told him all she knew. Instead he found himself looking close up into those blue eyes – clear as a sunny, southern day over Storm’s End – and took her face in his hands as well. “I suppose you are fighting a front that I cannot perceive,” he finally replied, kissing her gently. “I trust that you are fighting for me.”

He let himself cuddle up to her for a little while on the cramped sofa, stroking her hair and wishing that he didn’t have to get up and plan another bloody offensive.

…

Am I? Sansa asked herself as Stannis ran his big hands through her hair and down her back. Am I fighting for him, or for myself and my family? If our interests diverge, whose side would I take?

…

Ygritte spent less than five minutes in the gardens, in front of the kitchen door, with Jon. He stood on the doorstep while she crouched and crawled, lifting a fallen twig once, then nudged aside some dead foliage along the path to that led to the weirwood tree. Finally, she stomped back over to him, took his gloved hand in her gloved hand, and all but dragged him towards the godswood. When they stood in the warm mud beneath the weirwood, Ygritte pulled off her gloves and pressed her hand to the tree bark. She looked back over her shoulder and wordlessly invited him to do the same, so he did.

“Is this some sort of a clue to where Melisandre went?” he asked, confused. He whole body relaxed as the warmth around the tree enveloped them.

“Two people were here, a man and a woman. They knelt there” – she nodded with her chin towards a patch of churned-up moss to their right – “and she fell into the moss.”

“So… Melisandre was having some sort a tryst with a man?”

“No, if they’d been having sex, even proper boring sex, there’d be a whole lot more damage to the moss and mud.” Ygritte turned so that her back was rubbing up against the warm tree.  Jon followed her lead. It did feel wonderfully toasty.

“So was she here?” he asked at last when Ygritte offered nothing further.

“Hell if I know,” she shrugged, tugging off her dark fur coat and a woollen jumper, and setting them carefully on the mossy ground. “But I doubt it. Melisandre’s body was burned out in the woods. There’s no trail to follow because the snow and ice and wind have made tracking impossible.”

Exasperated, Jon ran a hand over his face and massaged the bridge of his nose. “How do you know that? Deer spore and the feel of the northern wind?” he sarked, annoyed.

“Don’t be an arse, lover,” she replied. “I saw a fire at about midnight last night, deep in the woods, towards the river. I was having trouble sleeping after our last round, you were dead to the world and snoring, and I thought I’d look out the window to amuse myself. I saw the fire. Now that I know Melisandre is missing, I put the two events together.”

“Explain,” he demanded, moving closer to her, but still connected to the bark.

“A fire in those woods, so close to Winterfell in the middle of a storm? She didn’t escape and then think she’d have a campout. Someone broke her out, killed her and burned the evidence. We can hunt out the site when the storms die down, maybe in a week or so…”

“Fuck,” Jon swore and drew his hand through his mussed hair. “Stannis will not be pleased about this.”

Ygritte peeled the final layers of her winter clothing from her upper body, then pressed herself into Jon, his back still warm against the red bark. She tangled one hand into this hair and trailed the other beneath his coat and jumper and thermals, finding the skin of his abdomen, and finally his belt buckle.

“Please do not talk about Stannis right now,” she ordered quietly, her lips still pressed against his. “You are tense every moment of every day, Jon, save the few minutes after you’ve just come. You have taken on the responsibility of winning this war, serving Stannis, saving the men, rescuing your sister.” His jaw tightened further, and he knew that just proved her words true. She opened his trousers and eased them down his legs just enough to free him. He sighed as she took him with a firm grip, sliding up and down slowly, but after a few moments tried to push her back against the tree.

“Ygritte, let me… oh, fuck… for you….”

“Jon Snow,” she smiled into a light kiss, not letting him move. “Stop feeling responsible and let me do this for you, before I lose you to a heart attack.” She dropped to her knees in the soft undergrowth beneath the weirwood and licked a wide path across his balls. He hissed and closed his eyes in surrender.

“You’re going to give me a heart attack, woman,” he whimpered, but her bent to caress her bare chest all the same. And for a lengthy, luxurious time beneath the warm tree, Jon let Ygritte’s mouth and hands wipe all other thoughts from his mind. She took her slow, painstaking time about it, pausing to lick and fondle every so often, backing him off the powerful edge, then bringing him right back to it, taking him deep and sucking hard. And he did, he had to admit, feel completely relaxed after watching her swallow all his tension down her long, white throat. He didn’t tell her so, but it made him feel hopeful and loved for a whole lot longer than a few minutes after.

…

Brynden Tully sat in the field office that Sansa had directed to be set up down the corridor from Stannis’ office. He was trying to interrogate his nephews about Sansa and Stannis, and finding them fucking hard work. Jon kept gazing out the window into the snow and forest with a slightly doped expression on his face, and Bran’s blank, brown eyes wouldn’t give away anything.

“Why have you two just let this happen? Stannis is infamous as a joyless prick, so how the bloody hell has he managed to force his way into Sansa’s good graces?”

“I believe he took her dancing, listened to her when she spoke and treated her with respect,” Bran responded. “He’s got her hooked on jazz, too,” he added as an afterthought.

Jon finally joined in the conversation: “He rushed to rescue her from Ramsay while bleeding out from a bullet wound and later saved her from an attacker in Wintertown.”  

“He relies on her diplomatic skills and connections,” Bran said thoughtfully. “And of course her hotel is currently quartering a good chunk of Stannis’ fighting men.”

Tully growled. “If he’s going to use her like this, he should marry her. He can’t just fuck her and expect…”

“Uncle,” Jon shook his head. “Please do not refer to my sister as fucking anyone. It’s none of our business unless she chooses to make it so. You’ve not concerned yourself with who I’m fucking.”

“You’re a man!” their uncle exploded. “I have a responsibility to look after Cat’s daughter. He’ll knock her up and then scarper south and she’ll never see him again. I’ll not have her labelled a slut.”

“Then stop calling her a slut,” Bran snapped. “Sansa’s really gone for him. And he can’t keep away from her.”

“Of course he can’t keep away. She’s a knockout and she puts out. A sour, uptight fucker like him – probably can’t believe his luck.”

Bran and Jon both groaned. “Jesus, uncle,” Jon breathed. “Stop this.”

“I’m going to make shotgun sure that man marries her,” Brynden Tully threatened. “We’ll be going south soon on campaign, leaving her here with Bran, surrounded by the soldiers left to secure the north. Stannis plans to send in soldiers from the Vale, and that means that sick fuck Baelish will be right behind, sniffing around for Tully cunt like he’s been doing since he was in short trousers.” Bran tried to put his hands over his ears and Jon raised both eyebrows in disgusted affront. “She needs a ring on her finger and some security.”

Bran steadied his voice: “You need not worry, Uncle Brynden. I will not let Baelish get close to her. I will keep her safe.”   

Brynden Tully gave Bran a hard look. “Seems to me that no one has done a very good job of keeping that girl safe since your father dragged her south before the war. I know you two were young when that happened, but you can’t blame me for wanting to make damn sure she’s safe now. Stannis will walk her down the aisle even if I need to drag him in front of the altar myself.”

Jon shot Bran a fed-up glance. He didn’t know who Sansa needed saving from most, their uncle or his commander.

…

Tyrion had drunk the whole of the bottle. Wine from Essos was one luxury the Nazis had managed to keep from the Northern regions, he thought drily, as though the forces of the resistance to tyranny would cave for a good bottle of red. Still, it was a good bottle of red, and even if he was reluctant Nazi, he would still enjoy the occasional benefit of paying lip service to his sister’s mad cult.

So when a soldier brought in a telegram, he was far from sober enough to read it properly. His mind, he was certain, was playing tricks on him. He had feared his ex-wife dead, and he fought back tears at the words on the paper in front of him. “Tyrion stop it’s Sansa stop”. Nothing more. He stumbled from the chair and made his way, swaying and bumping into furniture, to the telegraph machine. He ordered the room cleared. He tapped out an even shorter message in reply. “Prove it.”

If his ex-wife was alive, she either needed saving or she wanted something from him. Something that the Nazi hierarchy would not look kindly on. He sat by the machine with the door to the radio room locked tight, so that no one else could intercept her message, if it was indeed her. He drained another half bottle of Essosian red trying to think back on the conversations he had had with his pseudo-wife back in that hellhole of an executive mansion in King’s Landing. They had both been prisoners, both subject to the whims of Joffrey’s crazed rantings about Jews and misfits and Cersei’s power-hungry scheming. His senses were too dulled with alcohol to even jump in shock when the machine began clicking away. He grabbed the pen and paper he’d prepared and took down the message, sent uncoded. “I know for a fact that you did not always do as your father asked stop You defied him for me stop”. Tyrion closed his eyes and smiled in relief. She was alive. He still thought a refusal to rape her on their wedding night – or any other night - did not make a hero of him, but he was glad at least that she had been able to separate his actions from those of his family.

He wasted no time. “Ask of me whatever you will stop”.

…

Sansa finished brushing through Shireen’s wet hair and dried it with a towel. Stannis sat in an overly soft, horrendously floral chair next to Shireen’s bed, tapping The Tale of Two Cities against his knee and waiting for Sansa and Shireen to snuggle under the duvet together for tonight’s story. He let an impatient sigh when Sansa picked up the brush again and started plaiting his daughter’s long hair. Sansa turned to him with a smile and let her hand settle briefly against his restless arm. “Almost done,” she promised. “Shireen has such gorgeous, thick hair and perfection takes time.” He watched his daughter glow under the influence of Sansa’s kind words, and his heart caught for a moment, knowing that he would have to leave Shireen behind at Winterfell again when the next offensive began.

Sansa and Shireen nearly jumped a mile when Davos burst into the room, eyes searching wildly for Stannis. He swooped in with a kiss on the cheek for Shireen and she giggled. “Field Marshal, I’m sorry to interrupt,” he began, and Stannis felt that those words must replay in his dreams, they were so often heard, “but Tully’s men have a Nazi officer in the yard, discovered trying to infiltrate the castle.” Stannis frowned and stood, setting the book down on Shireen’s bed. He gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I’m sorry, Shireen. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Unthinking, he then pressed a kiss to Sansa’s cheek as well and watched her eyes nervously flitter between Davos and Shireen as he promised to see her later. Both his daughter and his best friend were smiling, though, and he hurried down to the yard.

…

Sansa tucked Shireen’s covers about her shoulders; the little girl had lasted all of 10 minutes after her father’s departure before passing out. Wrapping herself in a thick woollen shawl, Sansa made her way down the stairs to the yard, hoping for a glimpse of this prisoner. She had spent time in the south, if the man was an officer, perhaps she would know of him or have heard of him.

A huge man in a Nazi uniform stood in the dim light of the courtyard. His hands were shackled behind his back and two armed guards stood either side of him, guns drawn. She watched as Stannis walked around the prisoner and spoke to him, but she couldn’t make out what either of them said. The prisoner towered over Stannis, twice as wide and half a head taller. She couldn’t make out his words, but the timber of his voice grated like a glacier over granite.

Sansa tipped her head to the side and tiptoed closer for a better look, but although she stood in pool of artificial light from a lamppost in the courtyard, the prisoner hid mostly in shadow. Stannis stepped back, clearly giving orders to the man’s guards and gesturing towards the most secure cells below the castle. He turned his back to lead the way towards the doorway across the yard.

Sansa tossed back her hair and watched Stannis walk off. Her motion, though, attracted the attention of the prisoner. She could see his shadowy face turn towards her and hold there, a black swastika on a white field clear on his jacket even in the low light. Having caught sight of her, he tensed his huge arms and pulled apart the metal handcuffs pinning his hands, like they were so much brittle plastic. He swatted down one guard with a powerful punch to the head, and disarmed the other before he could get off a shot. Sansa gasped as he picked up the second guard and tossed him across a nearby jeep. Then he turned his attention back to her and started stalking over. Stannis had turned at the commotion and drawn his gun, but not before the man had leapt over the distance to Sansa and snatched her into his arms. She felt a scream forming in her throat, her arms trying to push at his chest to hold him back, until the light fell on this face. Sansa went limp with shock as the grey eyes in his scarred face found hers.

“Little Bird. The fuck is happening?”


	14. Protection

Sansa had thrown her arms around the scarred man, grinning into his shirt like he was a long-lost friend. She had those red painted lips close to his good ear, whispering to him, her lovely eyes wide, her enraptured gaze on his grizzled, angry face. He was rumbling back to her, twisted lips almost touching her skin as he spoke.

Stannis flicked off the safety on his pistol and fired a shot into the ground. Sansa huddled closer into the Hound’s arms at the sound, and he brought a hand up protectively over the back of her head. Stannis seethed, walked closer and pointed the barrel of his gun at the prisoner’s head.

“Sansa, step away that man,” he ordered.

Sansa shook her head furiously and only clung more tightly to his coat, the Nazi insignia balled in her shaking fist. “Stannis, no, please, please don’t hurt Sandor. You don’t understand…”

“Sansa,” Stannis growled low, his voice steady by force of will, “you will step back from the prisoner. I know who the Hound is, Sansa, he’s a notorious Lannister bodyguard.”

“Sandor deserted years ago, and he saved my life more than once. Please, listen, please put your gun down and I’ll step away.”

Sandor was prying her fingers from his shirt, one by one, trying to push her back. “Little Bird, you need to move out of the way.”

Jon crept round the other side of Sandor, his gun drawn as well, but pointed down. “Sansa,” he held out his free hand, “Come on, sis. We’re not going to hurt him. Just come here.”

“Jon, no, I can’t, Stannis will kill him.” She tried to work herself even closer to Sandor.

“That your big brother, Little Bird? The one from the Wall?” She nodded. “Go on, you let go of me. Let that brother of yours take you somewhere safe, where there’s none of these guns pointing at anyone.” He managed to disentangle her fingers from his shirt and hold both her wrists in one of his hands. She struggled and squirmed to get a fresh grip on him. “Here you go, boy.” He pushed Sansa so that she stumbled to Jon, but he didn’t let go of her wrists until Jon had holstered his gun and had a firm hold on her. She all but collapsed in Jon’s arms, weeping and pleading for Stannis, who now had a clean shot if he wanted to take it, to put down his gun. His finger twitched on the trigger as The Hound turned towards him, arms raised in an approximation of surrender.

“You didn’t manage to kill me at Blackwater, you shit. Reckon you can finish the job at point blank range?” Clegane taunted. One of the guards tried approaching Clegane from the back, but the hulking man batted away the guard with ease.

Provoked and jealous, Stannis aimed and fired without hesitation, hitting Clegane across the outside of his left shoulder, a deliberate attempt to wound but not kill. Blood poured from the big man’s arm, soaking the snow at his feet. Clegane dropped to one knee and swore profusely to the heavens. Sansa’s answering shrieks, though, cut through Stannis’ soul.

She had curled up her legs and was reaching out for Clegane, Jon’s muscles straining to hold her back from the firing line. Tormund had taken hold of her legs as she kicked and bucked to be set free. Stannis lowered his gun to Clegane’s new position, his jaw tight and eyebrows drawn down in anger, his stance ready to shoot Clegane through his scarred head if he advanced so much as a step.

“Giantsbane,” he bellowed. “Remove Miss Stark. Make sure that she remains _removed_.”

Tormund looked almost pained at the order, as Sansa cried and fought. “Stannis,” she sobbed in anger and disappointment, “stop stop stop. Don’t hurt him. You have to trust me.” Tormund hauled her inelegantly over one shoulder and put a stop to her kicking, his arms like iron bands around her legs. “Don’t worry, girl. We’ll make it all come right, aye?” he muttered. She’d kicked off her shoes in her hysteria and they lay abandoned in the snow along with a soft blue shawl. Stannis walked round the back of Clegane’s injured form and brought the hilt of his gun down hard on the back of the man’s head. Clegane buckled into the snow and lay still. He ordered six soldiers to haul the Hound’s unconscious bulk downstairs to the cells.

With the prisoner secured, Stannis holstered his gun and stood stock still in the snow, breathing far too rapidly and staring in disbelief at Sansa’s discarded heels. How had this happened? Why the fuck was his lover throwing herself at a Nazi guard?

“Gen Snow,” he finally said, his voice strained through his clenched teeth. “Find Cpt Tarly and have him attend your sister. Send Wolkan to the prisoner.”

Jon spat in the snow, incensed. “Aye, Field Marshal. And then you will attend my sister.” He advanced on Stannis. “My little sister, who is 19, and traumatised, and who you just ignored repeatedly as she tried to tell you that the Hound posed no threat. Who was screaming and fighting and trying to throw herself in the path of a goddamned bullet coming out of your fucking gun!” Stannis refused to take a step back, but he prepared to block a hit from Jon. None came. Jon turned and stormed off to the hotel.  

Stannis dropped his head, but his back was straight and broad as always. Snow flurries dusted his short-cropped, black hair and his long, black coat. He walked slowly the few steps to where Sansa had been standing and picked up her shoes and shawl with great care. He trudged back into the castle, her heels dangling from his fingertips.

Stannis made it to the doorway of Sansa’s room and silently stood watch over the scene. Tarly was bent over Sansa’s body, sprawled on the bed, and he was pulling a needle out of her arm and pressing the site of the injection with a gauze pad.  Nurse Poole sat beside her, smoothing her tangled hair with one hand. Brienne and Jon perched on opposite ends the foot of her bed, and Jon had one hand on her stockinged foot, squeezing it gently as Jeyne shushed and hummed a calming tune.

Tarly got down to Sansa’s level. “That’s just going to help you sleep for an hour or two, Sansa, nothing more,” he stammered reassuringly. Stannis was powerfully reminded of the first time he’d seen her, injured and frozen, with Tarly and Jon tending to her. He felt they’d gone straight back to square one. Sansa’s glazed eyes met his across the room and she raised herself up on one shaky arm, swaying a bit, her long hair mussed across her shoulders. She was already succumbing to the sedative.

“Everyone out,” Stannis commanded. No one moved.

Sansa sighed. “Could everyone leave Stannis and me alone please?” she asked quietly. Tarly gathered his kit, Jeyne pressed a kiss to her cheek and Jon and Brienne hopped off the bed. Jon closed the door behind them all, levelling a hateful stare at Stannis before allowing it to click shut.

Stannis took off his shoes and tucked them neatly beside an armchair, then removed his coat and jacket and laid them over the back. He took off his tie and did the same. Sansa was still sitting upright, her gaze bleary, when he crawled into the bed with her and pulled her close. She lay her head on his chest and he took over stroking her hair as Nurse Poole had been doing.

He tried to keep his hands gentle and his heartrate under control as he forced the words through his grinding teeth: “Clegane is fine, Sansa. Wolkan is tending to his wounds. He is locked up downstairs and you may see him and speak to him once you have rested.”

“He protected me, Stannis. He kept me alive in King’s Landing when Joffrey would have been happy to see me dead. He kept me from killing myself.” She ended her speech on a yawn.

Stannis closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headboard. He could see them whispering to each other in the snowfall like lovers, Clegane trying to protect her from the gun with his body. Suddenly he opened his eyes, a thought occurring to him.

“Sansa, does he know? Clegane: does he remember?”

She muttered something unintelligible into his chest and fell asleep.

…

Sandor came to with an icepack against his head and a maester sewing a neat row of stiches across a disinfected gash in his upper left arm. Fuck Baratheon twice; he hadn’t needed to take that shot. He could smell the modern cleaning chemicals rebounding off the walls of the old cell, not much changed from his time to this. A cell was a fucking cell, dirty or clean. This one was cleaner than any inn he’d ever eaten in or whorehouse he’d ever fucked in. And a damn sight brighter, with its bare bulbs burning behind his eyelids.

He growled at the maester, who didn’t flinch. “Calm down,” the young man said, a touch grouchy, “I need to get these stitches right. Sansa insisted that I come down to do it myself.” Sandor lay back quietly on a surprisingly comfortable mattress, beneath a heavy blanket that smelled of laundry soap. The soft, rotund maester – youngest that the Hound had ever encountered – continued his careful stitching in silence.

“You should go back to her. She needs looking after more than I do,” he said. “She always needs looking after.”

The maester tied off his work and swabbed another alcohol wipe over the wound. “The field marshal is with her; I gave her something to help her sleep.”

Sandor shot up from cot, startling the fat maester, who stumbled back and dropped a bottle of rubbing alcohol onto the concrete floor. “You drugged her and left her alone with Stannis?” he growled. He was up and rattling at the bars of the cell, looking for a weakness. “Where the hell is that brother of hers?”

“Gen Snow? He left when the field marshal arrived.”

“Have you all gone fucking mad?”

“Sansa is… ummm… she’s perfectly safe with him. She asked us all to leave and let them have some privacy.”

This stopped Sandor just as he’d identified a spot in the bars where the concrete was vulnerable to attack. “Sansa and Stannis Baratheon?” Sandor circled the small cell as Sam gathered his supplies into a green canvas bag with a large red cross on the front. “Is that cockless fuck with Sansa?”

“Field Marshal Baratheon is dating Sansa, yes. Why do you think he shot you? Jon said you were touching her, talking with her. You’re lucky she put up a fuss or he’d have shot you through the head.”

“I may still.” Stannis strode up to the cell with 4 guards scurrying after him, tripping over themselves to open the cell door for their commander, before he waved them away. “Clegane,” he acknowledged sharply. “Capt Tarly, get the hell out of here. Go back and watch over Sansa. Let me know when she wakes.”

The Hound watched Stannis closely. He’d seen enough of the man in King’s Landing to know of his character: hard and cold as Valyrian steel. The man before him looked only slightly different. Younger, somehow, his dark blue eyes still cunning and swift and his hair as black as Robert’s, impeccably dressed in a sharp, deep green uniform, the insignia of his rank sewn across his bicep. The Hound had been on the hunt for Sansa since waking up in this bizarre reality weeks ago. Thoros hadn’t been able to see what Sandor had in the flames, but he knew just as Sandor did that this world was all wrong. And now Stannis had the Little Bird in his iron fist; she’d traded a cruel Baratheon for a merciless one.

“You shot me, you cunt. That’s the thanks I get for looking after your beloved nephew for all those years, eh?”

“Joffrey was not my nephew. He was not a Baratheon.”

“Hindsight’s got a hawkeye, aye? He was your nephew when I was his guard. He was your nephew when he was torturing the fragrant Sansa Stark. When I was all that stood between her and a gang of rapists. They had her on her back down an abandoned alleyway that stank of shit and piss, already had her skirt pulled up, her pretty stockings on display. Did you save her then, you prickless shit?”

“Watch yourself, Clegane. Sansa’s fondness for you won’t save you if you mean treason. You will bend the knee and call me Your Grace or I will slice your head from your shoulders myself, Sansa or no,” Stannis round on him.

Sandor stopped dead and turned slowly, regarding Stannis anew. “The fuck you talking about, Field Marshal?”

“Don’t play games with me, Clegane. I know that you remember; Sansa told me as much,” Stannis retorted, pulling up a chair that Tarly had abandoned. “Why have you come here? Dressed as a Nazi?”

“The uniform belonged to some poor fuck south of The Vale had the bad luck to be about my size. Served me well until about 4 days ago, when loyalties seemed to switch in the Neck. Had to learn to drive a fucking jeep to get here.” He kept a wary watch on Stannis. “And I came here for Little Bird. I saw her in the flames.”

Stannis raised his eyebrows. “Caught religion?”

“Dunno. You always seemed partial to visions in the flames. Did you catch anything off that red priestess you were fucking?” When Stannis snarled in response, Sandor quickly added: “Your Grace.”

“She’s dead,” Stannis drawled. “I didn’t much like what she saw in the flames about Sansa. Am I going to like your version better?”

This time Sandor’s impassive face showed surprise. He sat down on the bed, facing Stannis. “I saw that Little Bird knew, that she was awake. And I knew she’d be trying to reach that pretty brother of hers at Castle Black, and maybe he would remember.”

“He doesn’t,” Stannis supplied.

“Then I saw her with you.” Sandor met his eyes. “And from there it wasn’t that fucking complicated to find the realm’s largest encampment of Westerosi forces. So were planning to just fuck the pretty girl until the monsters beyond The Wall give up in boredom?”

Stannis didn’t answer, just narrowed his eyes at Sandor.

“Fuck you, Stannis. Whatever this illusion is, it hasn’t stopped the Army of the Dead. They are still coming, and we still need to stop them. What are you doing about it?”

Now, Stannis frowned even more deeply than usual, and Sandor started to have an uneasy feeling about his silence. “The Army of the Dead?” Stannis asked slowly.

“Oh, fuck me sideways. You played me. You don’t remember, do you? Shit!” Sandor started a verbal rampage, which was cut short on when a thin, commanding voice spooked them both.

“Sandor Clegane. Interesting.” A teenager with the dark hair and long face of the Starks let himself into the cell and dragged in an extra chair. “So you’ve told Stannis about the Wights. Good, that saves time. Let’s begin.”

…

Two hours later, Stannis strode out of Clegane’s cell, certain that he’d finally ground his teeth down to nubs. He left the door to the cell swinging wide open behind him as he barked at one of the guards, “You. Private. Find Clegane some clean clothes that fit him and don’t involve a swastika. Ask whoever can be spared from the hotel staff to find him a room.” The young soldier jumped up to follow orders and Stannis swept past him without stopping, taking the stairs up to his office two at a time.

The conversation had been long and wide-ranging, and Stannis still felt that Bran was withholding information. He’d admitted to killing Melisandre, but that was nothing next to the Night King and the rise of the dead. The war had two fronts now, one to the north and one to the south. He still had no idea how he was supposed to defeat the dead beyond what he was certain was a non-existent wall. That wall had come down in the early Middle Ages, around the time that Tormund and Ygritte’s ancestors had ranged south and joined with Westeros. Clegane and Bran had said that Jon knew more about fighting the dead than anyone else. Which did bugger all good at the moment, given that Jon had no memory pre-modern times.

Bran and Clegane had cleared his thinking on more than just the war. Sansa needed to be protected, particularly if this world reverted back to the Dragon Age. He would be away, fighting, and there was no telling if he’d make it back alive. Bran made it clear that unless he married Sansa, others would be after her, as a bargaining chip or a possession.  There had also been his murderous jealousy, seeing her with Clegane. His feelings for her were deeper than any emotion he’d felt for anyone, save his own daughter, in a very long time.

Deep in thought, he nearly mowed down Brynden Tully in the corridor outside his office.

“Stannis, we need to speak –“

“Gen Tully, is this about Sansa?” He continued into his office, Tully on his heels. Davos looked up from behind his small desk in the corner, eyebrows raised above the line of his reading glasses.

Brynden Tully stood in front of Stannis’ desk as Stannis himself leaned against the edge. “Yes, it’s about Sansa. The gossip about the two of you is everywhere. You can’t think I’ll sit by while you drag her reputation through the dirt,  then leave her alone, with Baelish on his way…”

Stannis raised his hand to stop the flow of accusation. “Right. You want me to marry Sansa.  A bloody brilliant plan. Col Seaworth, organise the wedding, aye? Ask Nurse Poole to help you, and Capt Tarly’s wife – they seem to know her well enough to make appropriate choices. And I want it to happen in a goddamned church, properly, not out by that bizarre tree like heathens.”

Davos held his reaction close to his chest, then ventured calmly, “Field Marshal, have you asked Miss Stark her opinion on this matter?”

Stannis had marched around his desk and was now sitting in his leather deskchair, fishing through a locked bottom desk drawer. “She was still out like a light on Tarly’s sedatives last I saw her. I’m on my way up there now” – more rummaging – “and I just needed to find – aha!” He held up a ring box covered in black and red silk. “Mother’s ring. Well, then.” He stood and brushed past a suspicious looking Brynden Tully. He reached for the door handle, then stopped, tapping his foot thoughtfully and staring at the ceiling. He looked uncertainly at Davos: “Flowers?  I did shoot her friend.”

“Ya only winged him, but…” Davos nodded. “I’ll get Marya – she’ll find some. Give us 10 minutes.”

“Thank you, Davos. Gen Tully – will you walk your niece down the aisle, once Davos has arranged an aisle to walk down?”

Brynden Tully sat down and put his feet up on Stannis’ desk, then lit a cigarette and smirked. “If that’s what Cat’s girl wants.”

“You’re not going to tell me I’m too old for her? Or too embittered?”

“You’re too old and too embittered. You’re not good enough for her. But you’re going to save her. From Baelish. From Cersei. From all the enemies she doesn’t yet even realise that she has. You’re not going to let what happened to her father, and mother, and Robb, happen to her.” He sucked in a great lungful of smoke and let it out again slowly, tipping his head back. “So you’ll do.” Tully stood up and sauntered to the door. “Welcome to the family, Stannis.” He grinned and let the door slam shut behind him.

…

Sansa woke from a dazed dream, one in which she was still in the old Winterfell, wandering its halls and cellars in a game of hide and seek. She found Rickon first, hiding rather poorly behind a pillar. She took his hand as she continued her search, and found Arya crouched behind some shields in the armoury. Bran had climbed the weirwood. Jon took longer, hidden in deepest, darkest passages of the crypts. The all stuck together to search for Robb. They turned the keep and the grounds upside down searching for him, poking into disused cupboards and peeking behind dusty tapestries. She felt tears running down her cheeks, frightened now, and Rickon and Arya began to cry, too. Bran looked cold, emotionless, and Jon forlorn.

“Sansa, darling, wake up.”

Stannis. She frowned. Perhaps he had found Robb? That was it, Stannis would help her look. One of his hands was holding hers; the other stroked gently over her hair. His thumb swept across her forehead and cheek and briefly traced her bottom lip.

“Stannis?” she yawned, mostly asleep, her dream still before her eyes.

“I’m right here, Sansa.”

 “Stannis, have you seen Robb?” His hand stopped moving her hair, and the other squeezed her hand more tightly in his own. “Can’t find him. Can you help?”

His hand moved tentatively through her hair again. “Sansa, you need to wake up now.” She could feel his fingertips brushing the tears off her cheeks. “Sansa, wake. Now.”

Her eyes blinked open and she saw his face, frowning and uncertain, directly above hers. She was in her bed, in a hotel, and Stannis Baratheon - who didn’t remember he was a king - was lying next to her, his upper body propped across her. And Robb was still dead.

“Robb’s dead.” She blinked up at Stannis.

He looked confused. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “Did you dream of him?”

She gave him a sad smile, then yawned, and he spread out beside her and turned her to face him. “Yes. I always dream him older now, like he was in the woods outside your camp.”

Stannis’ body stilled and his breathing slowed as he watched her. “You saw Robb outside my camp?”

“Mmmmhmm,” Sansa yawned again. She felt odd, detached, like Stannis was both here with her and deep underwater at the same time. “He sent me to Jon. Or maybe to you. I’m not sure.” She thought about it while starting at the buttons on his shirt. They were white. “I feel strange.”

He scooped one arm beneath her and she shifted closer for a cuddle. He was lovely and warm, though not very soft and snuggly to lean on, but rather than letting her settle in for another sleep, he was lifting her up leaning her against the headboard in a sitting position. “Try this,” he suggested, and he handed her a tin mug of cold water. She obediently took a long swallow. “Tarly gave you something to help you sleep, and it seems to have worked too bloody well.” He was nearly growling by the end of the sentence, and it made Sansa worried for Sam. And she was worried for someone else. Someone big. She almost had it…

“Sandor!” She shot a horrified look at Stannis, as her mind swooped in and brought the scene before her eyes. “You shot him!” She pushed him away, scrambling out of bed on the opposite side from Stannis. Her legs buckled beneath her as she tried to stand too quickly and the room span around her. He stood and marched around the bed, stooping to help her up.

“Sansa, please, just sit for a moment and I’ll explain,” he gritted out, sounding almost angry with her, which was ridiculous, because he was the guilty party here. “Clegane is fine. It was only a shallow wound, and he’s all stitched up.”

“Why did you do it? I was begging you not to…”

Stannis burst in, his hands on her arms, steadying her in front of him while she regained her equilibrium: “Because he was touching you!” He flicked his eyes to the ceiling for a long moment, then met her shocked gaze. “I could tell you that I thought he might hurt you, or that we needed to subdue him. But the truth is that I didn’t like that he was holding you and speaking to you like an old friend.”

Sansa considered his words. “He was never exactly a friend,” she said thoughtfully. “I didn’t have any friends there. But he was on my side, all the same. Mostly.” She breathed in a out. “He frightened me. But he came here for me, because.” She stopped herself.

“Sansa, I know why he came here. I know that he remembers, too, like you do. I had a long talk with him, and with Bran.” That seemed to shock her all over again, and she sat back down on the bed, and she let him sit alongside her. “What did Bran tell you?”

Stannis ran his hand up and down his face, then back through his hair. Then something inside him just gave up, and he let his head drop into her lap. He felt Sansa’s hands, soft and gentle, brushing through his hair, down his neck, dipping under the collar of his uniform and stroking along the upper edges of his shoulders, brushing his skin. “Please,” he said, his voice muffled by her skirt, which had ridden up to well above her knee. He brought his hand to her knee and let it slide beneath her skirt to the top of her stocking, mid-thigh. “If I just promise that I believe you – all three of you – can we just put a bookmark in that conversation? I haven’t come to talk about Clegane, or Bran.”

He chanced looking up at her, letting his head drop to the side. She had caught sight of something across the room that made her breath catch.

“Stannis… Are those flowers? Did you bring me _flowers_?”

“I did,” he ventured. “Do you not like flowers?”

Sansa stared down at him like he was an alien being. Then she broke into a wide smile that lit her extraordinary blue eyes from within. He had been a fool to try to classify and label their colour. “I adore flowers! Thank you, Stannis.”  She traced his face, across his cheekbones and chin, with her fingertips. “No one would believe that the fearsome King Stannis brought me flowers.”

Stannis sank to one knee before her and produced the small jewellery box from his trouser pocket. He laid it on her exposed left knee. “If you’re finding the flowers shocking, then you best prepare yourself for this,” he said, trying to find a lighter tone. She looked blankly at the box. Ahh, he thought, perhaps engagement customs had changed in the last millennia. “It is traditional, in this time, for a man to get down on one knee and offer a ring, when he asks this question.” Sansa had one eyebrow arched higher than the other, trying to puzzle out his meaning. It threw him that she had not picked up on any of these clues and seemed oblivious to what was coming. It threw him so much that he forgot to phrase the question as a question. “Marry me, Sansa,” he said, in as strong and steady a voice as he could muster.  

She blinked several times, rapidly, but made no sound. He waited out the silence, trying to find evidence of her likely answer on in her blank expression. Finally, she breathed out slowly and picked up the unopened ring box. She pried open the lid with one red fingernail. His mother’s delicate gold ring of twisted antlers interwoven with diamonds seemed to shock Sansa into a response. She sucked in a lungful of air and then slipped from the bed and into his waiting lap. They knelt together, tangled on the bedside rug, one of her arms around his neck, her fingers in the hair at the base of his skull.  In her other hand, she held the ringbox pressed between their bodies.

“Stannis, you want to marry me? I knew the king wanted to marry me, would have married me in the days after taking this castle. But _you_ want to marry me?” she stared at him, disbelieving. “Why?”

Now it was his turn to feel confounded. “Why? For the usual reason.”

“What is that? I mean, what is that, here? Now? I mean, in this time?” she was pressing her fingers into his scalp almost painfully. “What if I can’t have children?”

Stannis hadn’t really expected the topic of children to come up quite so soon, but he supposed that was sensible, to discuss this before agreeing to marry. “I would like to have children with you, of course, but if we never did, I know that you have grown fond of Shireen, and I am sure she would come to see you as a mother, in time.”

“So you do not care about children?” she asked again.

“It’s not that I don’t care, I would like more children, but my relationship with Shireen has been difficult and … look, kids can be difficult,” he shrugged. “If we never had any, we just… carry on.”

Sansa looked sceptical. “And Winterfell.”

“The hotel? What of it?”

“Winterfell belongs to Bran and Jon. You will not have a claim on it through me,” she explained coldly.

“Well, first, I’m sure your parents will have left you a share of the hotel. But I don’t see how that matters. I have homes in Dragonstone and Storm’s End. Are you worried about where we’ll live after the war?” He searched her face, but once again could not decipher her intentions with these questions.

“No Winterfell and no children,” she said. “Why do you want to marry me?”

“Sansa, I know it’s soon, it’s only been a few weeks, but I have seen how intelligent and kind and witty and graceful and lovely you are. You are charming and beautiful and you approach life with curiosity and a sense of responsibility. So,” Stannis felt his whole face heating up. Why couldn’t she just say yes? He’d had less painful interviews with the BBC. “I love you,” he concluded simply.

Her fingers closed on the nape of his neck, trapping some of his hair in her fingers. It bloody hurt. But she was now breathing so hard that her breasts were straining against her blouse, and he found it hard to concentrate. He missed the first few tears. “Are you _crying_?”

“You wish to marry me because you love me?” Now she was dripping tears onto his shirt and his hands until he gave up trying to brush them away. She would be happier if she intended to say yes, he sighed to himself, resigned. He reached behind his head to try and loosen her grip, but she shifted her hands to the sides of his face and pressed her forehead against his. She still clutched the open ringbox in one hand, and it dug into his cheekbone. “Yes or no, Stannis?” she demanded, looking into his eyes and sniffling loudly. He’d forgotten the question, but she repeated it: “You want to marry me because you love me?”

“Yes, of course. After speaking with Bran and Clegane, I guess I have a few reasons, but the primary reason is that I love you.” The last word was lost as she started kissing him. He managed to extract the box from her hand and grip it, then he let his hand drop to her bare thigh and hauled her closer. Kissing had to be a good sign. It wasn’t a yes, but it definitely pointed in that direction. Her kisses were all passion and remembered pain, very wet, salty with tears. He pushed back, trapping her body close against himself. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs, well past the tops of her stockings, and he could glimpse her knickers as she straddled his lap. His hands were roaming her arse as he stood, using the bed behind her as leverage. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ringbox drop onto the bed, where it bounced twice before coming to rest in the centre of the duvet.

Sansa was kissing him so furiously that he couldn’t see where he was headed (her dresser, which he had on previous visits to her room noticed might be the right height) and he instead ended up pinning her to an expanse of blank, warm wall. He had both hands occupied now with her breasts, which he’d freed from her blouse and bra while balancing her over his hips, her arms tightly wound round his neck and shoulders.

“Oh, fuck,” he dropped his face into her neck, resting his forehead just above her collarbone. He licked and kissed any skin he could reach from this position. Her nipples hardened beneath his palms and she wriggled her hips, sliding and grinding over his erection, until he dropped his hands between them. Her skirt had been pushed up and over her hips, and he ripped away her silk knickers without a second thought. His fingers stroked along her wetness, circling and rubbing, and Sansa breathed out the loveliest noises next to his ear. He lifted his face to kiss her again as he kept up a steady, circling pressure, his hips thrusting uselessly beneath her centre.

“Oh. Seven. Stannis. More,” she panted in a moment when he’d drawn back for breath, before plunging his tongue back into her mouth. He reached under her bare arse, his short nails dragging along the underside of her thighs until his hands reached his belt buckle. He tugged himself free of his trousers, which the weight of his belt pulled halfway down his legs, and shoved down his boxers just enough. Stannis kept kissing her as he took himself in hand and guided his cock to her dripping entrance. He pushed her head back against the wall with his kiss, enjoying the symmetry of burying himself in her warmth as his tongue did the same to her mouth. Sansa whimpered in pleasure, and he felt so powerful in that moment, in such control of what they were doing, that he thrust faster and harder into her.

He had never fucked anyone like this, had never even considered the possibility. It was not easy, holding her up, but he felt that he had her pinned to the wall with his cock, and he loved the thought of it as much as the sensation. His thumb slipped back over her nub, and his other hand cupped a handful of her arse to help balance her weight. His middle finger – entirely unintentionally, he swore it – pressed against her arsehole. Sansa slowed at the touch, grinding down with purpose against that finger and the soft pressure of his thumb and the insistent intrusion of his cock inside her. She moulded herself to him, gyrating maddeningly slowly, taking what she needed. Stannis had never ever experienced anything as remotely erotic in his life. They were still biting and kissing and licking at each other’s lips as she came. It took him about half a dozen thrusts to follow her, and even then he stayed inside her for a long minute after, staring into her eyes and breathing like he’d run a marathon. He moved the hand on her arse to her thigh, suddenly a bit uncertain about her reaction to having his finger there, despite how it had aroused her. He filed that information away for later. Sansa was still kissing his face and neck and running her hands over his sweaty hair.

“I love you,” he huffed, unable to stop the words. “That was incredible. You are spectacular.”

Sansa laughed, a deep and satisfied sound. “Yes, it was. So are you.” She wiggled a bit, dislodging his cock, and he felt a warm trickle of his own seed drip onto his leg. No condom, once again. The caveman part of his brain rejoiced at that. She was to marry him, so what did it matter? He would welcome children with her.

Dammit, he thought, she hadn’t actually said yes. But surely intense sex against a wall – that was a really good sign, no? He carried her the few steps over the bed and sat down as far towards the middle as he could manage, with Sansa straddled across him. Worry took over now from his blissful exhaustion.

“Sansa, will you marry me?” he asked again, insistently.

“Yes, Stannis, I’ll marry you.” She grinned and felt around the duvet for the forgotten box, then plucked the ring from the velvet interior, twisting it to catch the light from the bedside lamp on the diamonds. When she began sliding the ring onto her right hand, he caught both her hands in his and took hold of the ring.

“Here, let me,” he commanded, suddenly serious. “It goes on your left hand, this finger,” and he slipped the ring into place. “It fits you,” he said, impressed.

“It’s stunning,” she whispered. “Oh, Stannis, you’re really going to marry me?”

He could barely think. His seed was still trickling from her, her cunt still pressed against his body. He felt a powerful wave of possession. He would marry her right now, bind her to him immediately, if that were possible. “Jesus Christ, Sansa, after that… I mean, of course I want to marry you.”  

Sansa managed to manoeuvre them under the covers and snuggle into him. They talked and kissed lazily, and Stannis felt completely content and relaxed for the first time in a very long while. Edd Tollett knocked on the door at some point, and Stannis loudly told him to fuck off and leave them. Sansa chatted and giggled, and when he finally began to fondle her breasts and stroke her hips, she sighed and smiled.

“Sansa,” he rasped, ready to plunge back in, “Let me find a condom.”  

“No,” she ran a hand over the side of his face, traced his lips. “I know you’re not… I know you don’t remember. About being king, and our own time. But I do. And it is my duty as your queen to provide you with an heir.” She smiled and spread her legs, encouraging him on top of her. “It is my pleasure to do so.”

Field Marshal Baratheon had no memory of what it was to be a king. But with Sansa beneath him, sighing his name and begging him to come for her, he had some inkling of what being king must feel like.

…

Sansa relaxed in the bath the next morning, her feet propped near the tap. She had lost none of her initial appreciation for hot baths that appeared at the turn of a handle. Stannis had just left to meet Davos, after entering the bathroom and groping at her soapy, naked curves before grunting unhappily that he had to go. She agreed to meet him, along with Jon and Bran and Sandor, in an hour, kissing him passionately before he walked out the door.

She lifted her left hand over her head and blew away the bubbles that clung to her fingers. They scattered over the bathroom tiles, revealing the beautiful Baratheon ring. Had this been his mother’s ring in her time, she wondered? Would it stay on her finger if the illusion of this Forward Place disappeared? She gave herself a few minutes to lose herself in the childhood fantasy: the king loved her, had gifted her with jewelry, had made love to her again and again, and had told her over and over of his devotion. Funny, she'd heard Brienne refer to condoms as protection, but Sansa's Dragon Age experience told her that pregnancy was better protection than avoiding it. Stannis would not set her aside if she carried his child. 

She allowed herself a smile. Then she dunked her long hair under the water, only letting out a happy laugh when she was under the surface, so that the old gods and the new wouldn’t hear her happiness, and thus wouldn’t seek to undermine it.

He loved her.

Did she love him? She didn’t know. Her heart couldn’t be bought so simply, with a ring and a promise. She knew better, knew plenty about men and about horseshit and about bad luck and evil people and enemies. So she rejoiced that the king loved her, but she would not rush her own heart. He would have to earn that.  

Sansa stood up from the bath and nabbed a thick, fluffy towel from the rail by the mirror. She dried off, brushed out and towel dried her long hair before arranging it into a smooth, 1940s wave. She stood before her wardrobe, wrapped in a towel, and she searched though Forward Sansa’s scandalously short dresses. Finally dressed in a bra, clipped stockings and a red cashmere jumper and short blue skirt, Sansa looked herself over in the mirror and shook her head, disbelieving, before asking herself one more question: would she still marry Stannis, if she could be assured that she would never return to the Age of Dragons? She raised her eyebrows at herself, leaving that questions for now, and turned away from the mirror, humming a little tune. She swayed down the corridor happily, searching for her friends. She wanted to show Jeyne and Gilly and Brienne and Ygritte the ring.  


	15. Weapons

Sansa stood on the ramparts of Winterfell, looking North. The wind whipped at her mother’s cloak, and she was glad of Jeyne scavenging these heavy boots for her. Thick wool trousers and several layers of thermals and jumpers kept out the chill. She had her hair braided, plain and Northern, and she felt immovable up on these walls. Bran stood to her right and Sandor to her left, all refusing to let the icy wind push them back indoors. Their meeting with Stannis had been delayed for several hours – something about the siting of planes – and the men had decided to fill her in before they faced the king.

“So… there’s an army of dead people – out there - who have come back to life?” she asked again, hoping for a different answer.

“Aye,” Sandor repeated gruffly.

“And they’re controlled by an undead king created by the Children of the Forest? And somehow it’s up to Jon to kill him?”

Sandor shrugged. “That’s what the flames told me. I started having these fucking visions after I met up with Thoros and Dondarrian again, and they warned me about the threat beyond the wall, and the prince who could save us.”

Bran had hold of Sansa’s right hand through both their thick gloves, but his grip was reassuring. She’d jumped off these walls once, not far from here and not so long ago. “Melisandre called him the Prince who was Promised,” Bran recalled, “but Melisandre spoke a lot of crap mixed in with the truth. The old Jon knew about the dead – he’d seen them and fought them. He understood the fight, and unlike me, Jon is a warrior. It seems logical that he must have told Stannis, too, but neither of their modern selves remember it.”

Sansa sighed and flicked her gaze left, then right, taking the measure of the two men who remembered as she did. They were both resolute: they wanted to return to their time and make things right. Sansa had admitted to herself, but to no one else, not even Bran, that she wasn’t so sure about returning. Together, they all stared out towards the wall without speaking for long minutes. Finally, Sansa spoke: “We have no choice. We must wake Jon.”

Bran squeezed her right hand, and Sandor reached for her left. They stayed up on the wall, unspeaking, until Bran whispered: “I think I know how to bring Jon back.”

…

Stannis paced a long track through the corridor near his office. He’d seen them there, all together on the castle walls, the three of them talking, plotting, swapping information about a time he could not remember. But the fact that was pushing him into a full tilt, teeth-grinding, anxious, furious, jealous rage was the memory of Clegane’s hairy paw on her hand. The hand with _his_ ring on it.

He would not marry her if she could not conduct herself appropriately around other men. She was encouraging Clegane in his pursuit of her. She held onto some sort of starry-eyed, teenage crush about the man, and she didn’t see him for the crude, disrespectful and dangerous brute that he was. It wasn’t too late to shoot Clegane. The Hound had touched his woman one time too many.

“Fucking hell,” he exhaled, dropping into a chair and then dropping his face into his hands and trying to calm himself. Was this angry, insecure man really who he was? Was this the king? Sansa said she’d seen his ‘true’ self a few times over the last days, though he could remember none of it. Why the fuck would she want to marry him if that’s what he was… a constant, simmering fury held in check only by a scowl.

“Father?” He swung round, startled by Shireen’s soft approach. She rarely approached him, certainly never his office, and Stannis felt the immediate discomfort that his strained relationship with Shireen always brought on. “I’ve written out those plans. For the Christmas party. Did Sansa tell you about it? She helped me, and so did Aida.”

Shireen spent most of her days with either Aida in the kitchens, or Bran in the library, or with Sansa on her endless travels around the hotel, or with Marya and the boys.

He smiled at her, best he could manage, and ushered her into his office. He sat on the small sofa and patted it in invitation. Shireen looked a bit suspicious of this turn of events. Perhaps she’d been hoping to hand over the document and run back to one of the stand-in parents she’d found for herself. “Yes, a party for the men – Sansa mentioned it.” He unfolded the single sheet of thin drawing paper, with Shireen’s neat handwriting sloping drunkenly along its unlined length. She’d included drawings, and numerous misspellings. “A jazz band?” he smiled, genuinely this time. Shireen smiled back, uncertainly. “Sansa said you would like that.”

“We’ll need to have the party in the next night or two, Shireen. Another battle is coming, and I’ll have to travel…” Shireen frowned and her lip wobbled, stopping Stannis mid-explanation. Should he hug her? He probably should. He opened his arms and she leaned in easily enough, though the hug still felt a bit awkward. “I’m sorry, princess,” he carried on. “But the party is a good idea, and the men will appreciate it, even it comes a bit before Christmas. Do you want to ask Aida and Sansa to arrange it?”

She nodded and moved back to sit on the very edge of the sofa, back straight, dangerously close to falling off. “Shireen, there’s something else I need to discuss with you. You know that I have gone out a few times with Sansa…”

“You like her,” she smiled. “I like her, too.”

Stannis nodded encouragingly. “I did like her, I mean, I do like her, but I also …. love her. And I know I’ll be leaving Winterfell soon, to fight this war, so I have asked Sansa to marry me.” He stopped talking and looked at Shireen’s somewhat confused face. “She said yes.”

Shireen wrung her hands quietly and seemed lost in thought. Finally, she asked, “What would Mother think?”

Stannis could honestly say he’d not given Selyse’s possible thoughts any consideration, but she would hate it. She had hated most everything Stannis had done during her lifetime, though he could hardly blame her. They had not really been suited for one another. “I don’t know,” he answered instead. 

“So, Sansa would be my mother?” Shireen considered this seriously, her forehead wrinkled in thought. “But not like Mother was?”

“Sansa would be your step mother. But in a good way. Not in a scary, Cinderella way.”

Shireen actually laughed at that, then quietened and turned thoughtful again. “It seems very soon.”

Stannis nodded. “It does. It is,” he conceded.

“I’m not sure if I want you to marry her,” Shireen finally decided. “It seems complicated.”  

You have no idea, he thought to himself. “The wedding will be very soon. Davos is organising it, and Marya. Maybe you could help,” he offered as a distraction. “After all, you’ve already planned this big party, so you have experience.

Shireen smiled again at that, seemingly distracted from her disapproval. “Ok, sure, I can help.” She jumped down off the sofa and holds her hand out for the piece of paper. “I need to take that to Aida.” With a small smile on his face, Stannis watched his daughter speed out the door and off to the kitchen. She sped back in a moment later, startling Stannis by crawling up onto the sofa and balancing on her knees to reach his face. She laid a clumsy kiss on his cheek. “Congratulations, father,” she grinned. She was back out the door before Stannis could grin back.

He pushed himself off the low sofa and threw open the doors to a tall cabinet behind his desk. He’d stored the specifics of Daenerys’ air forces in a black binder – right there. He tossed it onto his immaculate desk and set to making some notes about the potential fire power from above that they could use around River Run and in the north. How did one kill zombies, anyway? Obsidian bullets? Fire bombing? He drew up plans for the next 20 minutes before somehow the subject of kissing infiltrated his mind, and no matter how he tried to force it aside, it kept creeping back in. He set his pen down and allowed himself another little smile over Shireen’s random act of affection. He wondered if perhaps he and his daughter could begin mending their relationship. He hoped the war would end before her childhood did.

And then there were Sansa’s far more explicit affections. He still felt, vaguely, that he was getting away with something he shouldn’t where Sansa was concerned. What was she getting herself into with him? He could speak for the self he knew – he’d love her, treasure her, take her to Storm’s Landing once this godforsaken war ended and fill the house with children. He had an inkling, though, that this was his plan, and that it would diverge quite wildly from the king’s plan.

“Maybe I don’t deserve her,” he muttered into his air force munitions list.

“Nay, you do not,” a low voice growled from the threshold. Clegane. The big man leaned against to the solid office door until it snapped shut behind him. “Aye, I can tell you about the Stannis Baratheon who calls himself king.” Clegane propped himself up in a chair across the desk from Stannis, spreading his legs wide in a show of aggression so cliched that Stannis wondered in The Hound intended to piss on his desk as to mark his territory.

Stannis narrowed his eyes. “You’re here for our meeting, Clegane? Where are the Starks?”

“Sansa has a fat fucking ring on her finger with antlers around it. You sure you don’t remember who you are?”

“I know who I am, Clegane. I am the commander of Westeros’ military forces and… “

The unburned side of Clegane’s face went red and his fist came down on top of the desk so hard that the oak shuddered and threatened to crack. “You are the cunting king! You are hard as winter and twice as fucking cold. There is no way Cersei can hold that throne against you forever; you’re good as crowned. You going to drag Little Bird back to King’s Landing, to the place where she was beaten and humiliated and saw her father’s head roll down the steps.”

“Better I should keep her here?” Stannis held his temper and gestured widely at Winterfell. “The place where she was raped?”

“Ramsay’s dead and this is her home. Leave her to her kin. Leave her here.”

“Leave her to you, you mean.”

“Aye, I’ll stay. I’ll watch over her. I’ll keep the cunts from her door. Keep Baelish from her door.”

Stannis tapped his knuckles on the desk. “I will be her husband a few short days from now, Clegane. I’m not going to hand her over to you. Bran suggested this marriage, to keep her safe. Her uncle wants this marriage. Most importantly, Sansa wants it.”

“Sansa has a history of poor choices in the men she trusts. Myself included. You will be the death of her, Baratheon.”

Stannis held himself in check. His teeth grated and his jaw clenched tight. “I will not harm her. I will protect her with my life.”

Clegane stood abruptly. “Then let me fetch the lady and her brothers for you. Your Grace.”

…

Jon looked around the godswood. Despite the relatively warm ground by the magnificent tree they were now standing beneath, it was still fucking cold. Why did everyone keep dragging him out of doors in snow storms to look around the woods? It was worse than those godawful Boy Scout camps that Dad had insisted Jon and Robb attend. Ygritte wasn’t even with him this time to keep him warm. Now his brother and sister had decided they needed him to see the great out of doors.

Sansa held Jon’s hand while Bran prowled around the tree in ever increasing circles. Sansa smiled encouragingly, and Jon just squeezed her hand back. He wanted to get back to this meeting with Stannis, and he honestly wanted to congratulate his commander on the engagement. He’d been uncertain about she and Stannis, true, but Sansa looked happy, and for a girl who’d come to him frozen and injured and weeping a month ago, he couldn’t bring himself to be anything but happy for her in response.

Suddenly, something shifted in the woods. Something big. Jon stopped smiling and shoved Sansa behind him so that the tree had her back. He took out his pistol and angled his body in the direction where Bran had disappeared into some deep undergrowth. He heard Bran’s clear whistle through the trees.

Bran came through into the clearing first, holding up a hand and motioning Jon to put down his gun. He felt Sansa’s breath against his neck. “Jon, please don’t shoot,” she whispered, pleading. “Please don’t.” But when the white beast stepped into the clearing, fangs and reddened eyes pointed at he and Sansa, Jon aimed the inadequate pistol above Bran’s head. Sansa threw her arms around his chest. “He won’t hurt us, Jon. Give it to me.” Jon released the gun into Sansa’s hand and stared in open-mouthed shock as his brother patted the massive wolf and scratched behind its ears. The enormous white tail beat the trees behind it in rhythm as the monster advanced. Sansa kept hold of Jon’s hand and pulled him closer to the beast.

The wolf stretched out its nose and sniffed at Jon, the tail speeding up, knocking leaves and branches to the ground in its enthusiasm. Then it leaped, and Jon was knocked to the ice-hardened forest floor, the wolf pinning his arms to the ground and licking his face. Jon had to laugh, because something about his terrifying experience was also joyous. The mad thing was _wagging_.

“Stop it, boy,” Jon shouted between gulps of laughter. “Ghost! Let me up, boy.”

Jon shook his head as his wolf backed off just enough, still bending to lick Jon’s head now and again. Jon looked up to see Bran and Sansa frozen in place beside the wolf, staring hard at their brother.

“Oh fuck,” Jon said. “Ghost. This is Ghost.” He rose from the snow and threw his arms around the wolf’s neck, then rushed to his brother and sister. “We’re… we’re… what… when.” He paused, and drew Sansa and Bran into his arms. “Please explain,” he said, quietly. So they sat with him by the tree, and they explained it all.

…

Jon burst through the door to Stannis’ office, skidding to a stop by the desk and nearly tumbling into a chair. “So you don’t remember? Nothing?” he demanded.

Stannis’ eyes went wide. Clegane sauntered in behind Jon, with Bran and Sansa rushing in a few moments later, looking frantic. Sansa shut the door behind them all.

“Remember what, General?” Stannis asked cautiously.

“Seven hells, Your Grace, do not start with that. We need to clear The Gift. Now.” Jon was pacing the small expanse of floor left to him. “I’ll take Tormund and Ygritte and Edd, and a small force. We’ll evacuate a 20 mile radius – will that be enough? We need to send in planes first, so we know where they are. I’ll go. In case the pilots can’t see them,” he said.

“Jon, sit,” Stannis ordered.

Jon ignored him, skip-hopping in frantic circles around the office. “We must know how far they’ve come, and the numbers. I can’t calculate how long it’s been since Hardhome, or where they’ll be.”

“Eastwatch,” Clegane rumbled. “Start with Eastwatch. I saw it… in the flames. I think that’s where they’ll attack.”

Jon nodded at him gravely. “Very well. We start the search at Eastwatch. Stannis, will you request that Daenerys Targaryen to bring her planes north, along with The Manhattan Project bombs.”

Stannis sat back in his chair. “How is it that you remember?”

“Ghost,” Sansa supplied, moving around the desk to stand by Stannis. He took her left hand, subtly rubbing his fingers over her ring. “Ghost is Jon’s direwolf. He brought his master back.”

“It doesn’t bloody matter how I remember, but I do, and they’re coming for us. Stannis, we must move now. Tonight.” Jon was leaning across the desk now, nearly yelling.

“Jon, sit,” Stannis repeated and this time Jon threw himself into a chair next to Clegane, still tapping his fingers and feet with nervous energy. “I will order Daenerys north tonight. But last we spoke, she had not succeeded in outfitting a plane that could take the kind of payload you’re speaking of. The weight of that bomb would keep most of our planes grounded.”

“How many do we have?”

Stannis stared hard at Jon, his 20th century brain not entirely comfortable discussing this in front of Clegane and Bran. “Two. Two completed, more in development. But even those two aren’t sufficiently tested. We don’t know what we’d be unleashing.”

Jon’s face hardened. “I know what we’d be stopping, though. The dead, Stannis. They will sweep away the living, all of us, from here to Dorne, unless we stop them.”  

“How do you know that this bomb will kill them?” Sansa interrupted.

“It’s an atom bomb, little bird, powerful beyond measure,” Clegane growled. “It unleashes a blast of fire that melts everything for miles around.” When Stannis raised an eyebrow at this, Clegane turned on him. “Did you think that Cersei doesn’t know about your secret weapon? She’s been trying to produce one herself; no success yet. I’ve not seen anything of this. I only have my modern memories of her saying so.”

“Is it like wildfire?” Bran asked.

“Worse. Far, far worse,” Clegane shook his head, looking sickened. Sansa moved over to sit on the arm of the chair that Clegane sunk himself into, and she took his hand sympathetically. Stannis gritted his teeth at the sight.

Jon was frothing, back up and pacing afresh. “Then let’s test it on the Wights. We need to hope he has centred his forces at Eastwatch, not scattered them along the wall. I will leave now with Tormund, Edd and Ygritte to scout the area. Clegane comes too. He and I will see them if they’re there.”

“Clegane stays here,” Stannis corrected. “I will get the bombers and weapons brought to Winterfell, and I will come north with you. Go and prepare a plane to scout the area by Eastwatch.”

Jon saluted before he realised what he’d done. He shook his head at himself and ran out the door. Clegane nodded to Stannis; he would stay and watch over Sansa, as agreed.

Bran walked quietly around to his sister and kissed her cheek. “I am going to find Sam,” he said. “I want to see if this version of Sam has any information that can help us.”

When Bran clicked the door shut behind him, Stannis pushed his chair out from his desk and pulled Sansa into his lap. “You were able to wake Jon?” he murmured against her hair.

“His wolf woke Jon. It is an advantage that we don’t have for you.”  She looped her arms around Stannis’ neck and smoothed her fingernails into his black hair. Her face settled against his shoulder.

“You’ve seen me waken though? At times I have been the king?” He felt Sansa nod against the side of his neck. He stroked his hand up and down her back, slowly working his way beneath the layers of wool and silk.

“Yes, but we don’t need the king right now. We need the field marshal, who can command those flying planes and send this powerful weapon raining down on the Night’s King.”

Stannis smiled despite himself at her wording. “It’s only you, isn’t it, with no memories of this time? Clegane, Bran, even Melisandre – they all had an alter ego in this time.” Stannis looked her in the eyes. “I wish I could wake up, be who I am.”

Sansa’s eyes were guarded. “You’re going to go North, to fight the Long Night. You, and Jon, and Sandor, and Davos, and Edd, and Tormund.” Stannis nodded into her hair. “This weapon… will it kill the Night King? His army?”

Stannis studied her, knowing as well as she that their time was potentially very short. “Bran and Clegane told me what kills them: obsidian, something called Valyrian steel, and fire. I have no idea where the steel could come from, and it’s too late to produce weapons made of obsidian in great numbers. But fire, we have. Lots of it.”

Sansa remained quiet, focussed on her hands, now folded in her lap, shut down to him once again, and Stannis was never certain exactly what triggered these moments, when she seemed to trust him not at all.

“Sansa, when I have been the king… what have I been like… to you? Are you frightened of me?”

She didn’t answer straight away, but finally breathed: “Only a fool isn’t afraid of a king. I’m not a fool. Not anymore.”

He pulled back to look in her eyes but couldn’t make out the emotion there. She wasn’t scared now, with his fingers under her shirt. He unhooked her bra and dragged his hand around her ribcage, to slide slowly up the underside of her breast. Sansa stood up and let him drag her blouse and jumpers over her head and slide the bra down her arms. “Are you afraid of me now?” he persisted.

Sansa smiled and shook her head. “Not now. And Stannis, you have been good to me… as the king. Protective. And kind. And now you’re going to risk your life again for this realm, against an enemy you don’t even remember.” She was tugging open his belt buckle, and Stannis forgot his concerns when her hand closed around him, squeezing gently up and down. She’s been talking to her friends again, he thought, picking up tips. Sometimes she was so completely modern that he forgot… Stannis sighed and let his head drop back against his leather chair, and he thought about how wonderful her friends were to have taught her this. He ran his thumbs over her nipples and let her stroke him without intervening, just to see what she might do.

He wasn’t prepared for her to slip out of his lap and kneel between his legs, then tug down his trousers just enough to free him completely. Stannis sat bolt upright and stared at her in shock. Stannis was familiar with blowjobs: somehow he’d never felt quite as bad about Selyse’s existence when he just released into another woman’s mouth rather than shagging her. But Sansa on her knees for him seemed terrifically wrong. Sansa was not a quick fumble before a battle, when death seemed equally as likely as living with the guilt of the act.

Sansa looked up at him with her clear blue eyes and an enigmatic smile, then she licked. He heard his voice telling her that she shouldn’t, that she did not belong on her knees before him, topless. But everyone knelt before the king, didn’t they? Just not quite as intimately. “Do you want me to stop?” Sansa asked, sounding nervous and conflicted. No, he did not want her to stop, but she should stop. It was not right, not respectful. Then she licked again. And again.

“Please don’t stop,” his traitorous mouth told her. After several further experimental passes with her tongue, Sansa finally closed her mouth over the head of his cock. She didn’t take it much more than the tip, and suction was minimal, and her teeth occasionally brushed against a very sensitive area, a feeling that left him more worried than aroused. She blew him with virginal inexperience, as though she was reading an instruction manual, but damn it all to hell if it wasn’t the most amazing blowjob he’d ever had. She moved her head up and down, sliding her tongue along the couple of inches of his cock that he she took in. So he guided her hand to take what her mouth couldn’t and issued instructions when he couldn’t take the glacial pace a moment longer. When she slipped her free hand gently beneath his balls, Stannis growled that he was about to come. “Sansa, love, oh Christ, love, it will be in your mouth if you don’t let go,” he stammered, giving her hair a gentle tug. Then he groaned, because it was too late for further warnings, and the pleasure swept through him. He kept his gaze locked on her lips, which were closed softly around the tip of his cock, as she held on with a single-minded determination. He watched himself pulse, and Sansa held still, letting his release fill her mouth. Then she pulled free, clamping her lips closed to keep it all in and swallowed it down without complaint, without a grimace.  His hands gripped tight to the arms of his desk chair as Sansa’s tongue darted back out, licking away the last traces of his seed from the head of his cock. As though she felt she hadn’t really finished the job, as though he might accuse her of missing out on some essential etiquette.

Momentarily speechless, Stannis reached behind him into a cabinet, poured out a finger of Davos’ whiskey into a glass and handed it to Sansa. She smiled gratefully and swigged it down in two hesitant mouthfuls. Watching her carefully, Stannis tugged his trousers up, then reached out and pulled her back onto his lap. “Why?” he asked against her lips, kissing her.

“You seemed tense. A wife should help relieve your stress,” she whispered to him.

“I’m fighting a war. I am always – always – tense,” he muttered into her hair, hugging her against his chest.

“Is that your way of asking for another?” Sansa smiled slyly.

“No, Christ. I mean, yes, at another time, of course, obviously, but… That was wonderful, Sansa. Thank you,” he stammered. They cuddled in his desk chair for long minutes, and Stannis kissed her hair over and over, willing the war away for long enough to enjoy this brief moment in which he had a beautiful woman in his lap, a woman who wanted to marry him, a woman who willingly opened her legs for him or dropped to her knees.

Eventually, Stannis told her that he had to go. He had to contact Daenerys and prepare troops to move North. Sansa smoothed down her skirt, then looked him in the eye. “I must go, too, Stannis. I’ve much to do. We must prepare to receive the Wildings – I’m sorry, I mean the people of The Gift. If you begin the evacuation tonight, they will be here soon, and we need tents, food, blankets, beds…” He could see her working out the logistics, and cut her off with a finger to her lips.

“Sansa, I will leave Edd here with part of our force, to manage the evacuees and to guard Winterfell and the camp. You should not worry…”

She smiled sadly at him. “Not worry, Stannis? You are going to fight death itself, with a weapon I cannot imagine, something that scares even Sandor. And thousands of desperate people will be descending upon this keep… this hotel… and whatever you say of Edd, I will take charge of feeding and sheltering them.”

Stannis stood as well, working his arms around her waist and drawing her close. Then Davos and Brynden Tully knocked on the door of his office, and the war began again.

...

Jon had seen them, a vast camp that stretched for miles north of Eastwatch, but where Jon saw an army of zombies, Stannis saw men in uniforms of white, their unworldly blue eyes staring the plane as it soared over their slowing marching mass. Even without Jon's vision, Stannis had felt the chill of their stares in his bones, the brush of their evil settled into his mind. His troops were on the move North, and the indigenous tribes of The Gift were on their way south. By morning, he'd have Daenerys and her bombers ready for an attack.  Sansa listened to him mutter all this to her in his dazed, low voice, wrapped around her body, naked in the big bed in her parents' room. When he finally fell asleep, Sansa slipped from the bed and wrapped her robe around her as she walked to the window and looked north. She closed her eyes against the night and tried to find strength in the memory of her father, of Robb, of her mother. I will not be afraid, she repeated softly, for I am a Stark. Winter is coming. 

 


	16. The Third Time

Sansa had been engaged in a staring war with her own self for nearly an hour. The woman winning the battle of wills was sitting serenely as Jeyne unwound soup tin curlers from her long hair and cycled through five unfussy up-do’s before finally heeding Sansa’s wishes for her hair to be completely unbound, smooth and simple and curled, in long stylish waves like the starlets in the magazines that Sam had somehow found for Gilly. That Sansa, preternaturally calm, gave the occasional low-voiced command, for perfume, or a bracelet, or different stockings. But the other Sansa panted in terror, and though she was locked away in place so deep and dark that Jeyne and Gilly and Brienne couldn’t find her, that Sansa quietly tore through a linen handkerchief hidden in her lap, unpicking the threads in an effort to contain her panic. Every so often, the Sansa with the Rita Hayworth waves caught a glimpse of her alter ego in the unforgiving mirror above her vanity table, just a little flash of something around the eyes, a little tightening of her spine.

Sansa had seen this breakdown coming, and she had tried to stave it off by giving Jeyne and Gilly a list of requirements: no lace, no gold, no embellishments, no ornate buttons. In fact, no buttons at all, front or back, and no lacing. No sleeves to restrict her movement. She would marry in a dress that carried no connections to the previous two.

Still, she was barely holding it together.

Marya had found something in Sansa’s extensive wardrobe that could be modified, and the result was a pure white column of thick satin that dropped to the floor in a hush of heavy material. The zipper at the back fastened with a clever hook that made her feel safe. The neck draped just a little over her breasts, hinting at cleavage but showing nothing. The dress looked modern, and the single-layer, cathedral-length veil was unheard of in her own time.

Sitting as still as stone walls, she covertly twisted the Baratheon ring on her finger until the antlers scratched and hurt, the diamonds digging into her flesh, and she let Jeyne finish darkening her eyelashes and cheeks with her clever stash of cosmetics.

Gilly reached over to prop up the magazine photograph that Jeyne was faithfully trying to recreate on Sansa’s lips and brows. It had slumped to the point that it threatened to knock over a pot of hairpins near the edge of the vanity.

“Sansa, you look just like you should be gliding down a red carpet in Hollywood,” Gilly sighed, brushing her finger over the well-thumbed page in the magazine. Sansa grinned, her friend bringing her back to the warm present, and Jeyne growled.

“Don’t make Sansa smile, Gilly!” Jeyne huffed. “I’m creating a masterpiece over here.”

“Yeah, Sansa, no smiling on your wedding day,” Brienne called over from her place on the bed. She rolled her eyes at Sansa, who grinned slightly wider. “At least one of the happy couple should be smiling, and we can’t rely on the Field Marshal for that.”

Jeyne downed tools and smiled benevolently upon her creation. “He’s not going to smile. All the blood will be rushing to his pants,” she winked.

“Jeyne!” Marya admonished. “I’m about to zip this woman into a white gown and pin on a veil. We’re not supposed to be discussing Field Marshal Baratheon’s equipment.”

Sansa shook her head lightly. Her friends had filthy minds. Had they always been like this? When… if… they all went back, would they all still be so free with their talk? So free in any respect?

She let Marya zip her into the gown, tucking bra straps away under the smooth runs of silk that curved over her shoulders. Marya demonstrated how to unhook the hook-and-eye closure at the top of the zipper. “Make sure to show him that, or it will be a frustrating wedding night!” she laughed.

A frantic knock on the bedroom door announced that it was being flung open, and Shireen bounded in, tugging a harried-looking Col Seaworth behind her; he covered his eyes and muttered apologies. Marya stopped fussing with the dress and walked across the room to swat him round the head.

“Davos, no men!”

“It’s all right, Colonel,” Sansa put in, “I don’t mind.”

Shireen and Davos both found Sansa at the same moment, and they both froze in their tracks, looking at Sansa.

“Miss Stark,” Davos smiled, and his eyes looked a bit watery, “the field marshal is a very lucky man.”

“Sansa, you look so pretty!” Shireen squealed, running full tilt to Sansa for a big hug. “The hall is all ready for the party tonight. This is so much better than a Christmas party! But I have it all planned out and it should go very well,” she nodded solemnly, heavy with responsibility. Sansa grinned and assured her that Shireen had her every confidence, as Marya pulled her away and Brienne straightened the gown.

Bran peaked around the corner of the open door with his worried face but brightened when he saw Sansa all dressed and ready. “It’s all clear, general,” he hollered into the corridor outside her bedroom, and Jon sheepishly followed his brother inside.

Davos cleared his throat and handed a small, wrapped box to Sansa. “Stannis wanted you to have this,” he said, “and I promised I’d personally make sure it got to you. That done,” he tugged at Shireen, “we shall see you at the church. I sent Stannis off in the car already, and I need to get there before he paces a hole through the vestry floor or shoots someone.”

Brienne and Gilly quickly hugged Sansa and followed Davos into the corridor. Jeyne stopped to help Sansa into her ivory heels and adjust the jewelled straps over the tops of her feet. She and Marya carefully wrapped up the veil in a length of tissue. “We’ll meet you at the entrance of the church and arrange this there, all right?” Jeyne gave her a careful kiss on the cheek and squeezed her hand. “No worries, now, Sansa, it’ll all be a-okay. Trust me?” Sansa nodded, her carefree mood deserting her by degrees as her friends left the room. Jeyne turned to Jon and Bran as she began to close the door behind her: “You two will make sure our girl does not cry and smudge her make-up, do you understand?” Jon mock-saluted and Bran clicked shut the door.

“Sansa, you look stunning, beautiful,” Jon smiled at her, taking both her hands and stepping back as far as their arms would allow in order to take her in. “Father would be so proud. And Robb, and your mother.”

Sansa’s lip wobbled a bit, and Bran swept in. “This has nothing to do with those other weddings, Sansa, and you know it well. Please don’t think on them.” Bran closed his eyes briefly, as if he too were trying to block the images from his memory.

“I know that King Stannis will treat you well,” Jon drew her into a hug. “If he does not, I shall take Longclaw and remove his head from his shoulders myself, whether it makes me a Kingslayer or no. But though he is hard and tough, I believe he will care for you, sister. Father died defending his claim to the throne. He would approve this match, if it is what you wished.”

Sansa blinked away the tears rising to her eyes.

Jon frowned. “You don’t have to marry anyone, Sansa. You can stay here at Winterfell until the end of your days. Bran and I will never force you into a marriage you do not wish for yourself.”

Bran nodded. “Of course. This is your home, always.”

Sansa stood with one hand clutching Bran’s hand and the other in Jon’s. “I want to marry him, I honestly do. I’m just… nervous… as I never met him as king. And being queen, the prospect of King’s Landing, knowing that tomorrow you will all leave to fight the Night King…” she trailed off.

“Sansa, two days ago I saw the armies of the dead marching to extinguish the breath of every living soul,” Jon explained quietly. “Stannis saw it, too. And his first thought was of you, of ensuring that you had the protection of his name and his house before he went to war. I trust him with you, and when you came to me after Ramsay…” Jon shut his eyes briefly. “I though I would never let a man near you again.”

“Come, sister,” Bran smiled, uncharacteristically free of weight and worry. “We all have this one, beautiful day. Let’s go enjoy it, and smile and laugh and see you happy.”

Sansa suddenly remembered the box that Davos had handed her, still perched on the vanity where she had set it down. “Open it, Jon,” she urged him. “Make sure it’s not a note calling the whole thing off.”

Jon snorted a laugh. “Not bloody likely,” he said. “The man’s shouting and snapping since dawn, making sure everything is in order.” He untied the ribbon and pried open the black box. “Whoa.” Jon hooked a finger beneath the necklace and held out the long string of pearls for Sansa to see. “There is a note,” Jon looked up to see if Sansa wanted to read it herself, but she indicated for him to read it to her. “ _Pearls from Storm’s End. I wanted you to have something of my home, until you can see it for yourself. Yours, Stannis_.”

“I think I kinda want to marry him now,” said Bran. Sansa hit him in the chest and they all laughed. Jon motioned for her to lift her hair and he clasped the necklace in place. Then he wrapped her in a heavy fur coat let Bran lead her down the stairs.

Gendry was waiting in the courtyard next to the open door of a black Beauford. He grinned and whistled as Sansa walked to the car holding Jon and Bran’s arms. They kept their conversation light and modern on the short ride to the small, wooded kirk that Davos had found. Marya and Jane were waiting on the front steps in the light morning snowfall, ready to arrange the simple veil over Sansa’s head. Marya pinned in lightly into place, so that it would drape elegantly down her back when Stannis lifted it away from her face. Now it trailed behind her as Jeyne shook it out, and it provided a somewhat private space despite being almost sheer. Marya arranged a bouquet of white winter roses in her hands.

“Perfect,” Marya sighed when Sansa stood ready in front of the closed church door.

“Stannis is going to want to shag you before you make it halfway down the aisle,” Jeyne enthused.

“Are you okay to let Uncle Brynden walk you down the aisle, Sansa?” Jon whispered. She nodded, and he stroked his fingers over her hand reassuringly. “I’ll be in the front row with Bran. If you want to run, we’ll have Gendry waiting with the motor running, okay?” She gave him an anxious smile. He couldn’t kiss her cheek with the veil in the way, so Jon rested his forehead against hers and held her by her upper arms. “Let’s get in there before we freeze to death.” She laughed and nodded a bit frantically, and Jon signalled to Marya that she could open the door.

The electric lights of the chapel almost blinded her at first as her eyes adjusted from the overcast winter morning. At a bust of organ music, a thumping tune that Sansa found rather grating, the few dozen people in the pews of the church stood and looked back to her. She watched as Jeyne, Jon and Marya rushed ahead to stand in the front pew near Bran and Davos. At the front of a long central aisle laid with a thick, red carpet, stood Stannis. He wore his dress uniform and everything on it gleamed just so. He seemed so still that Sansa narrowed her eyes, trying to ascertain from a distance if he was still breathing. So she nearly jumped out of her skin when Uncle Brynden stepped up to her side.

“Sansa, you look as beautiful as your mother did on her wedding day,” he smiled kindly. “And I think that the stick up Stannis Baratheon’s arse may be the only thing holding him upright. I’m not sure he’s breathing. Shall we get you down there to check?” He grinned at her.

“Uncle,” she breathed, “I may faint. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. The light is very bright, isn’t it? Don’t you think it’s a bit too bright? I think it’s rather stuffy in here. Are the windows open? I may need some fresh air.” Then she started breathing like she had on that airplane ride. What had Stannis done to calm her? Counted? 1,2,3,4,5,6,40,78,235… Her uncle must be leading her to one side, because her view of Stannis was suddenly blocked by a stone wall. She could hear Uncle Brynden speaking to her, but nothing he said registered. She doubled over, affording her a view of his polished brogues, one was tapping against the carpet of the entryway. Was his voice getting louder? She brought the hand not holding the flowers to her chest, to make sure her heart hadn’t beaten its way out of her body. The lamps lighting the way into the godswood swayed in front of her open eyes, but Stannis stood under the tree this time, waiting to torture her, waiting to drag her into the castle, where no one would heed her screams. Her uncle’s shoes disappeared, and in their place appeared two pairs of polished black boots. He’d sent guards. Firing squad for sure, this time. Good work, you stupid girl, instead of marrying the king you’re going to be shot in front of all these people. Why couldn’t you hold it together for just a little while more? Useless, worthless…

The boots in her line of vision shifted as Jon and Bran knelt with her. They each had one of her arms, and they gently helped her to stand. Jeyne was there, taking her bouquet, turning back her veil to help her breathe. Jon gathered her into a hug and she rested her head on his shoulder while Jeyne rubbed her back slowly and soothingly.

“I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined everything,” she whispered in horror.

“Shhhh, Sansa. Nothing’s ruined. Stannis is worried, but he understands,” Jon’s voice rumbled in her ear.

“You take the time that you need,” Bran added. “Including marrying him another day, if that’s what it has to be. Or never.”

“He still wants to shag you, Sansa. I can tell,” Jeyne nudged her shoulder.

“Jeyne,” Sansa reached out and grabbed her friend’s hand and struggled to regain her breath. “Jeyne… that is…  completely… inappropriate.”

Jeyne laughed. “You just breathe, missy. That man of yours is waiting to marry you, and he’ll wait years if he has to. But I don’t really think you want to wait, do you?”

Sansa shook her head. She stood up straighter, one hand on Bran’s shoulder to steady herself. “I feel a bit more in control now,” she said.

Jeyne handed her back her bouquet and rearranged her veil. “Perfect once again. Now, I’m going to shoo Gen Tully into a pew, and Jon and Bran are going to walk you down the aisle, okay?”

“Okay,” Sansa agreed, her breathing coming naturally now. Once Jeyne had gone, Sansa nodded to Bran, and he gave the signal to Jeyne. The music began again, and with one brother to each side, Sansa made her way back into the brightly lit church nave, where Stannis was waiting just as Jeyne had said, looking with well-disguised lust at the way the heavy satin flowed over her breasts and hips. The weak daylight through the stained glass through colours across the church, and Sansa found herself grinning like a child at the ribbon and flowers and all the little touches that her friends and family had arranged for her. Shireen had walked down the aisle in front of her, scattering flower petals, which Sansa thought a lovely touch.

Finally, she locked her eyes on Stannis, glad that Jon and Bran were doing all the work of keeping her upright and steady so that she could focus on his face. As she made her way slowly down the nave, Stannis’ countenance seemed to change. What began as a sort of lustful awe morphed into what seemed almost like pain. Wincing at the overhead lights, he shut his eyes tight for a moment. He was scowling, and while that wasn’t unusual, he did not generally scowl at her, and, she felt fairly certain that even holding up proceedings for ten minutes for her nervous attack wouldn’t make him cross with her on this day. His eyes flicked to the pearls around her neck, dripping over her cleavage, and the scowl softened into something that could almost pass for a smile, before it disappeared once more behind a grimace. Sansa titled her head and wished that she could hurry to him, ask what was wrong.

Then, as Bran and Jon stepped away and Stannis held out his hand to lead her up on the step next to him, he broke into a soft and genuine smile.

“Sansa,” he breathed, looking her over from head to toe and back again, “My queen.”

…

The Great Hall of Winterfell was packed as full as Sansa could ever remember seeing it, including the feast that her parents had thrown to welcome King Robert, she whispered to Stannis. Soldiers wandered in and out for the music and dancing. Aida had set up food tables and tents outside in the courtyard and around the gardens to feed the hundreds of men who had not journeyed north. These men would be staying to protect Winterfell when Jon and Stannis left in the planes tomorrow. The main body of the troops were already in transports on their way across the frozen ground towards Eastwatch and The Gift and Castle Black.

Shireen’s Christmas party plan had served just as well for a wedding reception, and she buzzed about the room like a proper hostess, greeting and chatting with a maturity far beyond her years. To one side of the hall, a jazz band played on a makeshift stage. Townspeople from Wintertown had filtered in as well for a drink and a dance. Jon hadn’t sat down all evening, Ygritte keeping him busy in the space for dancing near the main table. Stannis had danced half a dozen songs with Sansa, but he felt stiff and uncomfortable, not at all the same man who had drifted around a club with her in Wintertown, cornering her for a kiss. But he was not the same man, he supposed. Because somewhere between Sansa beginning her walk down the aisle and ending it, Stannis had remembered.

Now, he leaned down as she danced in his arms to the last song of this set, the band ready for a break, and he hissed, “Can we leave now?”

She tried to surreptitiously pass a hand over his forehead. “Is the headache any better?” she asked softly. He shook his head. “Jon had the same, off and on, for a day, he told me. I can’t imagine, all of that knowledge of another you filtering in.” Taking his hand, she led him through the crush of revellers twisting and whirling across the dancefloor, their cries of protest when the band set down their instruments for a break forcing an encore. Sansa tried to squeeze through the crowd, but Stannis simply cleared his throat loudly and they parted to let the newlyweds pass. Sheltering near a hearth, overhung with Ned Stark’s collection of medieval weapons, Sansa twined their fingers and looked on sympathetically. “I’m told we need to stay for cake. Aida made it, and I don’t want to appear ungrateful.”

Stannis groaned in pain, but he searched through modern Stannis’ knowledge: “It’s a tradition – cutting the cake.” Sansa glanced up at his closed eyes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. She looked extraordinarily beautiful in that dress that caressed every curve, and even through the pounding in his head, Stannis wanted her. “I’m sorry, my queen,” he whispered, “I don’t mean to ruin our wedding feast.”

Sansa just shrugged. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, Stannis, it’s that the wedding matters for little. It’s all about who you’re marrying.” She smiled gently: “And I’ve finally married the right person.”

Stannis felt some of the pain dissipate at her words and the absolution of Sansa’s feelings for him. Seven help him, he felt happy in a surreal way looking at her. In her white satin dress and Baratheon jewellery, his wife looked like his personal angel, red lips smiling just for him, bright hair tumbling over her breasts just for him, her eyes glittering under the electric lights just for him. He tried to think of the last time he had felt this sort of happiness and came up blank.

And so what happened next seemed a shame, when he thought on it later. But still it came: Hurricane Tormund swept in, and swept Sansa out of Stannis’ reach. With a drunken chuckle, Tormund twirled and danced his bride back into a looping waltz of a movement, holding her tight to his chest with her feet swung wide enough to knock into a soldier behind them. One of Sansa’s elegant ivory high heels slipped from her foot and skittered beneath a table.

“Mrs Baratheon!” he near-giggled, “Too many sylbubbles. Sybils.”

“Syllables,” Sansa corrected, wriggling to free herself. Tormund held her tight, not wanting to drop her.

“You shoulda stuck with Stark,” he shouted for the packed hall, laughing.

Sansa slipped her arms down the front of Tormund’s chest and tried to push herself free, but it was like watching a child trying to roll a boulder uphill. Brienne came over at a run, picking up Sansa’s shoe from the ground and then whacking Tormund around the head with it.

“Put her down, you barbarian,” Brienne ordered. Sansa shot her a grateful look, but Tormund only held on tighter. Oblivious, he waltzed her toward the head table, singing all while. Stannis heard the moment that everyone hushed, then a few screams and a fair amount of movement towards the exits. Still as a post, Tormund stopped twirling and sobered. The general silence made Sansa’s gasp audible throughout the hall. Pointed at Tormund’s wild head were two swords, one held by Stannis and the other – Stannis didn’t even know the scarred giant could move that quickly, or that stealthily – gripped by The Hound. Both men had freed them from Ned’s display of period-relevant weapons over the fireplace. An unfurling rage roared inside Stannis’ head, intensifying the pain, but this man was handling his wife, and the disrespect consumed him.

Tormund let Sansa down on her half-bare feet. With a silky swish and uneven patter, she ducked beneath Stannis’ sword, the only thing moving in the shocked tableaux. She moved to Stannis’ left side, taking the hand he held out to her wordlessly, while the unwieldy weapon stayed dead-on steady in his right. The moment seemed to drag on forever, until Davos appeared at Stannis’ back, whispering urgently about the need to put down the weapons before someone was hurt. The field marshal pushed his way to the forefront of Stannis’ brain again, and he lowered the heavy sword carefully, shooting a look of disapproval at Tormund. Sandor lowered his weapon when the King did so.  Tormund took the opportunity to make things worse.

“How can you still be this uptight, Baratheon? Ye’ve married the girl now; surely you must know that you can fu…” he never got the whole word out. Ygritte was busy slapping his drunken face, Jon tugging him away from Sansa.

“Ye pissed loon,” Ygritte muttered, hauling him away by his arm, Brienne and Jon behind them. Brienne paused, rushed back to hand Sansa her missing shoe, gave her an apologetic hug, and sprinted after the grumpy Wildling. Stannis looked down on Sansa, who was staring at the shoe as though it contained some vitally important information. He drew her closer, but she was shaking slightly, and the hand he was still holding had gone icy cold in his.

Bran’s voice snapped him back to two realities at once: “Swords at a wedding, Stannis? Really? Do you want Sansa to have a nervous attack?” Stannis noticed her breathing – too shallow, too fast – and he ran his fingers under her chin to look into her eyes, pretty blue topaz eyes currently filling with tears. “Bring her over to the table and let’s get her something warm to drink,” Bran continued, mildly disgusted. He took the shoe from Sansa’s hand and adjusted it onto his siter’s foot.

Stannis suddenly felt disgusted with himself. How could he have done this to her, on her wedding day? A wedding that was supposed to be as far from Robb’s, and Joffrey’s, and her last two as it was possible to be. Sandor held his hand out in front of Stannis, and he passed the sword over for the big man to return to their places above the hearth. The party began to hum and hive around them again, the buzz of gossip on the air, and the music picked up afresh.

“Sansa,” Stannis sat next to her at the long table, while Bran pressed a cup of warm tea into her hands. “Forgive me, my queen. I saw him drag you away, and you struggling, and I just… I could not let it stand.” His felt a familiar tension in his jaw – had the field marshal ground his teeth, too? He suddenly couldn’t remember.

Sansa responded with practised politeness: “Tormund meant no harm, he never does. But Your Grace was merely defending me. I thank you.”

Stannis could see something shut down behind her eyes. He clung to the remains of his modern self, trying to bury the jealous and prickly king. “I’ll let Aida know to bring the cake. After that, we can retire to our room, just us. Okay?” He pressed a kiss to her hand, just above her ring. “You look so beautiful today, Sansa,” he added softly.  He could make out the curve of her arse quite clearly, and the king found himself thinking about holding down those sumptuous, childbearing hips as he got an heir on her.

Sansa straightened in her chair and brushed her hands over her spotless, white gown. Stannis grimaced inwardly at the motion. “Thank you,” she forced a smile. “I can’t wait to see what a modern wedding cake looks like that requires its own ceremony.”

The four-tier lemon cake, a wartime miracle of sugar and butter decorated with flowers and swirls of marzipan, cheered Sansa and she hugged Aida gratefully. She held Stannis’ hand as they cut the cake together to shouts and cheers around the hall and outside in the courtyard. He managed to smear a bit of icing on her lower lip, which he then felt duty-bound to lick off. Finally, she gifted him a genuine smile of real happiness, and Stannis’ heart began beating again as she whispered in his ear, “We can leave now? There are no more traditions to fulfil? Because I want a slice of this cake, and you should have another dance with Shireen, and then I to be alone with you.”

…

The moment the door to their room closed behind them, Stannis sank to the floor, eyes shut, back to the door, head clutched in his hands. Sansa opened a window to gather a handful of snow, then wrapped it in a towel and held it to his forehead, curling up next to him on the floor. Reaching for a table behind her, she produced two pills and a glass of water.

“I told Sam you had a terrible headache, and he gave me these,” she encouraged quietly, watching him anxiously as he swallowed the pills.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, tipping his head back against the door. “I despise…” he stopped himself, snarled and ground his teeth.

Sansa sat back on her heels, carefully avoiding snagging her gown beneath her shoes, observing her new husband struggling to reconcile two versions of himself. “Yes?”

“I despise disrespect. Giantsbane had no right to touch you, and he would not have dared in our own time.”

“Do you think not? Tormund respects you, he respects your leadership and your strength, but he doesn’t follow the same etiquette. I can’t imagine he is a paragon of social graces even in our own time, Your Grace.”

Stannis suddenly realised that Sansa would likely not have had the courage to say such to him in their own time, either. She was not even twenty years old, scarred and frightened by half a lifetime of captivity and abuse. How much poorer he would be for it, if she held him up with nothing but respect, if she only saw his station and her duty.

Fuck, he had a stunning bride. A stunning bride ten years younger than himself, who spoke to him with confidence that he would not hurt her, though all of her experience must tell her he would. Who held him with affection and open, honest concern. Who counselled him.

Headache be damned. Stannis sat forward on his knees and pressed his forehead to hers. “Sansa, promise me you will never call me Your Grace when it is only us.”

Sansa searched his eyes, then smiled. “I will reserve judgement for now, Stannis.”

He stood quickly, ignoring the headrush, and lifting her into his arms, appropriately bridal style. “Tradition in this time says I should carry you across the threshold of the room,” he grinned, “but I may settle for carrying you over to the bed.”

Sansa laughed aloud, and Stannis felt all the previous happiness rush through his body. “I prefer this to a bedding ceremony, I must say,” she grinned.

“Oh, there’s still to be a bedding, my lady,” Stannis answered, standing her next to the bed. His fingers located the catch at the top of her dress and began easing the zipper down her back. Taking his time, admiring the intricate lingerie, Stannis undressed her, kissing and licking as he exposed her breasts, then slowly lowering her knickers and stockings to the floor. She had slipped open the knot of his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, opened his belt buckle, kissing him deeply whenever she could.

He stretched out on top of the duvet and encouraged her across his hips, sliding his hardness through her wetness and setting her atop him. She rubbed herself over his cock, his fingers stroking her breasts. He kept at it, steadily building pace and firmness, until she sighed and moaned for more. Pressing his fingers against her clit, Stannis finally lifted her and readjusted her position, so that he could slip inside.

And it’s not that he didn’t feel her warmth and tightness just as much as he had the few times before; he felt everything as they moved slowly and deliberately. But this time his emotions overrode the physical; he just watched her above him, her breasts swaying, nipples brushing his lips, hips pressing deep and constant circles, his fingers touching her so that he could feel the dampness seeping from where they were joined. She came quietly; he missed it, only clocking it when she slumped over his chest, kissing him. He came with his tongue in her mouth, not even groaning his release, his hands cinched tight on those hips he’s admired all day.

Stannis felt the whole of his two personalities shatter like glass. Kissing her hair, he pulled her head to his chest and listened to her fall asleep atop him, their skin drying in the cool room. He closed his eyes, too, and let himself sleep the whole night through, before both the King and the Field Marshal needed to leave his wife, and wage war on the dead.


	17. Vision

Snow fell again the next morning, and the temperature dropped so low that even the hot-spring water in the walls seemed tepid. Sansa wrapped herself in her mother’s cloak and two pairs of wool stockings under a thick wool skirt, but she still found herself stamping her feet in the courtyard, men hustling all around her. Gendry blew onto his hands, barely able to grip the wheel of Stannis’ olive green command car. Sansa wondered if the air temperature affected the ability of the flying planes to stay aloft, but she supposed they wouldn’t risk Stannis and Jon if it was dangerous to fly.

Jon had left, along with Ygritte, Edd, Tormund and Brienne, before Sansa and Stannis had even roused themselves from their rumpled bed. Stannis told her that the flight wasn’t long – a few hours – so Jon might already be at Eastwatch, looking for the Night King’s unholy army.

Davos had corralled Sam into the back of Stannis’ car alongside Bran, and she could see them deep in conversation. She watched as Marya and her youngest boys hugged Davos goodbye near the entrance to the hall, and she admired the older woman’s bravery in not spilling a single tear in public. Sansa wasn’t sure she was up to putting a brave face on this, not when she could still feel the echo of her husband between her legs.

Eventually, Davos let go of Marya, and she let go of him, and Davos climbed into the car. Uncle Brynden, who was staying behind to take charge of Winterfell’s defence, nodded sombrely to the car’s occupants from his spot by the gates. Shireen hugged her father goodbye and then drifted into Sansa’s orbit, looking nearly distraught.

Stannis appeared behind Sansa, wrapping her cloak more securely about her waist, an excuse to hold her in public, surrounded by soldiers. Sansa felt tears escaping, and Stannis’ warm breath on her neck, where he placed a soft kiss below her ear.

“Stay well, and safe, my queen,” he whispered. And before she could even form a reply, he was closing the door of the car and signalling to Gendry to drive on. She felt Shireen’s hand in hers and she squeezed back, as Stannis kept his eyes forward, returning Gen Tully’s salute as the car powered past the open gates.

She must have stood there for a few minutes in the freezing air, because the soldiers around her had all moved off to their duties, and Shireen had returned to Aida and the warmth of the kitchen, by the time she became aware of her surroundings again. She turned sharply to head back inside and ran smack into Sandor’s solid chest. She pulled back, confused.

“What are you doing here? I thought you’d left with Jon.”

“I’m your sworn fucking shield, Little Bird. The king gave me an option, take an oath to protect you, or lose my head. Easy choice,” he snarled, adjusting his Westerosi uniform. “Seems he doesn’t trust these modern cunts to know what’s a threat to you, or how to protect you.”  

Sansa paused. “But he doesn’t trust you with me, either.”

“Ah, well,” Sandor explained, “Your husband was most creative in his description of what would happen to my cock and balls, and in what order, if I laid a hand on you inappropriately.  And your uncle is here to defend your honour.  The Blackfish is a wily fucker, even without his memories. You’ll be safe, Little Bird.”

 

Sansa couldn’t suppress at smile at Sandor’s crude language. “Thank you, Sandor.” He nodded brusquely, then followed a few paces behind as she walked toward the supply sheds at the far end of the compound. She squared her shoulders; she would start with an inventory of the food supplies, and then think about how to expand the glass gardens – no, greenhouses – to supplement their diet. After all, Winter was quite literally marching towards them, along with thousands of displaced Wildlings from the Far North, and Sansa had to prepare.

 

…

 

It took near a sennight that they truly did not have to clear civilians from a wide enough area to consider using an atomic weapon. The cold intensified with every step that the dead marched closer, never tiring, not bothered with food or sleep or supplies. Stannis wrapped himself in a thick parka, the fur-edged hood catching the snowflakes before they could obscure his vision. He was up to three pairs of thick socks now in his heavy boots, and he could still barely feel his toes.

 

In the freezing air, the airplanes struggled to take off and fly straight, and visibility was low. Daenerys’ voice crackled over the radio; she could see the army stretched out below her, and her  bomber and two fighter planes were bearing up under the intense cold, thus far. Stannis fancied that he could hear the creak of ice trying to form on the treated wings from their position 12 miles away.

 

Crouching back down behind the concrete barricade with Jon and Davos, Stannis considered praying to his mother’s gods. Fuck load of good the empty promise of a higher power would do them, he reminded himself. The only higher power here was modern technology that he did not entirely understand the full power of. Their only hope was that the Night’s King knew nothing of their weapon. In his arrogance, he had the whole of his army together, a vast mass of moving death across the plains of ice.

 

Stannis used his teeth to pull off his clunky gloves and took the radio over from Edd.

 

“Gen Targaryen, report in,” he said, watching his breath crystalise in the air around him.

 

“Field Marshal, I’m over the centre of his forces, near as I can tell. Copy?”

 

“Roger, general. Drop your payload and do not wait to confirm the hit. Hightail it out of there as soon as it clears your bay. Over.”

 

“Roger that, sir. Over and out.”

Jon looked solemn as they waited, and Davos mumbled to himself, “This better fucking work.”

 

Long, silent moments later, the ground shook as the shock waves rolled through. And it kept shaking. A deafening, sickening roar began and seemed to carry on, followed by a crack that felt like the earth would swallow them whole. The roll of the earth threatened to knock them off their feet. A cloud rose in the distance over the site, seeming to chase Daenerys’ planes as they rushed back towards camp. The cloud billowed over the ice, reaching its black tentacles in every direction. A blast of hot wind swept over their heads as they huddled behind the concrete barricades.

 

Edd held onto the radio to keep it from toppling from its concrete perch, as Stannis raised his voice over the noise. “General, report in. Are all personnel accounted for? Over.”

 

Radio silence stretched for long moments more before her planes were almost directly overhead.

 

“Affirmative, general,” her voice sounded shaky, even given the static. “All personnel accounted for. Proceeding to rendezvous point at air field. Over.”

 

He set down the handset and pulled his glove back over his freezing hand and stomped to regain some feeling in his feet. The cold had lifted just a fraction. With his binoculars to his face, Stannis could see a hint of tall flames beneath the smoke, only a couple of miles from their posititon. The ice was burning, and the radius of destruction seemed even greater than he’d hoped.

 

“Davos, with me. Gen Snow, we need a scouting team out to the edge of the destruction – we can’t fly through the cloud and we need an immediate assessment. Send them now and have them report via radio every mile.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Jon leapt to his feet and swept out of the bunker to choose his scouts.

 

Stannis and Davos climbed into the car, and Gendry rushed them across the frozen roads towards the airfield. He could only hope that the dead had truly burned, and would stay dead, because if this bomb hadn’t worked, he had no fucking clue what his next move would be.

 

…

 

For two weeks since Stannis’ departure, Sansa welcomed those fleeing from the far North and made sure they all had places to sleep and food to fill their bellies. Then or now, she thought, the rescue of refugees remained more or less the same. She found that running the hotel little different from running a castle, as she remembered her mother doing. Staff to deploy, plans to set in motion, meals to oversee, supplies to find. Sandor dogged her steps, stopping only short of her bedroom and the Godswood, where he stood guard either outside the door or on the path to the weirwood.

 

Sansa visited the wood twice a day, every day, to pray for her brothers and for Stannis, for Davos, for Edd, for Brienne and Jeyne and Sam, for all the men gone to fight the dead. Bran had written after the first bomb was dropped, detailing the destruction of a mile and a half of Wights in every direction from the bomb site, of ice melted down to the dirt tens of feet beneath. The dead destroyed by the bomb had stayed dead, and Stannis had ordered the fire-bombing of every remaining pocket of the scattered Army of the Dead. But the Night King still lived, still moved somewhere out in the frozen Land of Always Winter, Bran had seen him and two more White Walkers in memory, still patrolling, plotting against the living.

 

Supply trucks rumbled into and out of Winterfell daily, coordinating the movement of food and clothes and munitions to the men in the North.

 

So, late at night, when all but the Night Guard slept, Sansa slipped out to the godswood. She tried to evade Sandor, but the man could hear a pin drop in Dorne if he put his mind to it. She would slip out her secret doorway near the kitchens, and he would slip into step behind her as she trudged through the gardens. Ghost came every night, too, and flopped on the ground beside her like a lap dog hoping for a scratch behind his outsized ears.

 

She fell to her knees before the heart tree, as much in exhaustion as devotion. She had slept little in these two weeks, convinced that any laziness on her part could lose the war. She felt tired through each limb, to the depths of her soul, in every organ in her body. She’d lost weight along with sleep, complying with the strict rationing she’d ordered for the whole of the castle.

 

So she wasn’t entirely surprised to see Robb walking through the far side of the woods to her. He looked almost corporeal, though he left no footprints in the soft earth beneath the weirwood, and he roused not whisper of interest from Sandor, only feet away on the path to the garden. Ghost looked up to consider him, panted in interest, then spread back out on the warm dirt, oblivious to anything supernatural about the appearance of the King in the North.

 

“Robb,” she whispered to her hallucination, believing in him far less than she had when she was half-dead in the woods only a few moons ago. Nevertheless, Robb dropped elegantly to his knees beside her, joining her in her prayer, but saying nothing. Then, with both their faces turned to the heart tree, Robb reached over and took her hand. She felt it, and that terrified her, the ridges and bumps of his knuckles, the smoothness of his short nails beneath her fingertips. She turned to see his face, pale as her own, with his dark auburn curls and Tully blue eyes.

 

“Shhhh, sister. Watch, listen,” he nodded to the tree, and she fixed her attention on its weeping eyes, until the tree faded away, and she saw what Robb wished her to see.

 

_King’s Landing shimmered under gold and black banners, the crowned stag fluttering everywhere in the breeze. On one turret of the Red Keep, Stark direwolves dominated, the grey silk sombre against the bright stones of the keep, the building still magnificent despite the damage wrought during the war to free it from the Lannister imposters. Sansa rode towards the keep with Jon at her side, Longclaw strapped to his waist. He wore the old crown of the North upon his dark head, and he was here to cement the alliance to the King in the South with his sister’s hand in marriage. The Stark banners were for her, a gift for the bride from King Stannis. They had met before, in Winterfell after the defeat of the Boltons, but for all he had was a brilliant strategic battle commander, an outstanding swordsman, a just and hard-working king, Sansa had not warmed to him. It was like trying to warm to permafrost; it would only burn you with its cold and never yield or melt._

_Sansa’s mind raced through their solemn wedding in the sept, the sober feast, the images of her scowling groom mixed with her feelings of dread. And then time seemed to slow again and focus on the wedding night. His Grace, unlacing her gown with unyielding hands, directing her to the bed, explaining in a detached voice that they must perform this act as a duty to the realm, to produce children as living embodiments of future peace between the two strongest houses left in Westeros. His hands were not gentle, exactly, but neither did he mean to hurt or harm her. Sansa tried a nervous smile, she tried to win him over, but she only succeeded in slowing his approach somewhat, enough to give her time to be somewhat readier. He took his time, he kissed her, he was careful of her, he held his obvious lust in check even as he came inside her, her eyes staring blankly past his thick, dark hair to the ceiling of his bedchamber. He was no Ramsay; he hadn’t hurt her, and she supposed he hadn’t forced her, though she would never have chosen to let him, if she’d been free to choose. She knew, though, that she never had been free to choose, and that Jon had chosen for her the best path he could. Stannis near-apologised afterward for the necessity of the act, and he directed her to own rooms, should she wish to make use of them. He was already pulling up his breeches, turning his back to her. It could be interpreted as cold, or simply as giving her some privacy. Either way, Sansa shivered._

At a nudge from Robb, she snapped open her eyes. The weirwood’s red leaves rustled overhead in the clear, winter breeze, and she could make out the faint words of a Christmas carol being sung by the early morning kitchen staff. She was wearing the heavy woollen pyjamas and Army-issue boots that she’d put on earlier in the night, after her bath. Stannis’ ring still circled her finger, and she remembered his confessions of love on the night he’d slipped it onto her left hand. She nearly cried in relief.

“Robb?” she called, but there was no sign of her lost brother. Sandor was to her in a few steps, however.  

“Little Bird, you call for me? Hey, hey,” he stooped to help her to her feet, “You taken ill? You look unwell.” Ghost raised his head to acknowledge the man, and Sandor drew Sansa slowly away from the direwolf. “Come now, Little Bird. Let’s get you back to your nest. You need to sleep, and the Stranger knows that so do I.”

Sansa cast her eyes around the wood, looking for any sign of Robb. The godswood was still and cold and empty of all except themselves, but then Sansa noticed a pattern in the dirt near the trunk of the weirwood. She shook off Sandor’s hold and edged closer. Disbelieving, she knelt and ran her fingers over the markings in the mud; she had no trouble recognising the design for what it: there was the north-east coast, the Bay of Seals. Her finger hovered over the location of Eastwatch, but primarily, this was a map of..

Sandor harrumphed from over her shoulder. “Why’ve you drawn a map of Skagos in the dirt, Little Bird?” he questioned. “And what’s this?” He reached to pick up the carved wooden figurine that stood on the coast of the island nearest Eastwatch. Sansa’s hand shot out to claim it first, closing her fist around the toy direwolf that Robb had carved for Rickon long ago.

Sansa pushed her tired body to standing, using Ghost’s strong back for leverage. “Because that’s where I’m going, soon as I can pack some clothes and food and water and blankets.”

“Fuck you are, Little Bird. Stannis wants you in Winterfell, behind castle walls with a unit of soldiers between you and any Lannisters thinking to take advantage of the situation. And Skagos is too close to the Wights – they could have marched well south of Eastwatch, for all we know.”

Sansa shook her head. “Bran said that Jon and Stannis are chasing the Night King north, and that the bombing destroyed a large part of the dead.”

“If they’re chasing him, that means they don’t know where he is. And Stannis would not want you anywhere near a place they’re bombing.  He was fairly fucking specific, girl.”

“Stannis is not here. And this is not the Age of Kings. And I am not a girl,” her voice grew louder as she warmed to the topic. “In this age, no one owns me, and I’m going to Skagos. I’m going to get my little brother.”

“Your brother?” he asked, confused. “Bran’s with Jon; you just said he’d written…”

“Rickon. Rickon is on Skagos. He’s alive, and he’s alone out there without his pack, among those savage people that the Starks spent decades quelling, and I need to bring him home,” Sansa announced. Ghost rubbed his face into her belly, inserting himself between his mistress and the large man arguing with her. “No one is here to stop me.”

He looked dumbfounded. “I am!” he growled. “Your husband left me here to ensure that the Little Bird stayed safely tucked in her cage. You married the king, Your Grace,” he spat. “So you will obey your lord husband’s command and stay fucking put.” He reached out for her, only meaning to guide her back to the hotel, but Ghost didn’t like his tone of voice and snapped at his hand in warning. Sandor removed his hand but didn’t take so much as a step away.  

Sansa stood as straight as her septa had taught her and tried to convey the impression of looking down on the much taller man. “My husband does not own me. It’s 1944, as everyone keeps telling me.”

“Not for us, it’s bloody well not,” Sandor retorted.

Sansa carried on regardless. “I will not have anyone shouting orders at me _in my own castle_. Winterfell is a Stark keep, not a Baratheon, and I will do as I see fit as the warden of my own home. As for you, I order you, as your _Queen_ , to accompany me to Skagos so that we can rescue my baby brother.”

“Godsfuckingdammit all to hell, Little Bird. You’ll have us both beheaded, or fire bombed, or ripped to shreds by cunting Wights or by bloodthirsty Stoneborn. Tell your uncle; he’ll sent soldiers to rescue the boy,” Sandor gritted out a plea for reason.

“There is no way to approach the Skagosi with soldiers and not start a bloodbath, and they have Rickon as hostage,” she shot back. Then, she reached across Ghost and gripped Sandor’s hand. “I know my history; I remember my lessons. The wars with the Stoneborn were brutal; they won’t accept armed men making demands. But they may treat with me. And you’ll come with me. Because I can’t sleep another night knowing that Rickon is out there, and I’m not doing anything about it.”

“Fuck,” he sighed. Sansa knew that Sandor’s concern was justified; she imagined that Stannis’ reaction to learning that she had left the protection of Winterfell for a rescue mission would send him into a rage. Aimed at Sandor, and then at her. But she had to do it. If she told Uncle Brynden, he’d lock her in the tower until Stannis returned. Sandor was the only one likely to defy her husband’s orders for her.

That night, with her bag packed and supplies loaded into a car for an early departure, Sansa curled up in her wide, comfortable bed, rereading the last letter that Stannis had sent to her from Eastwatch, before he’d ranged north with Jon and Tormund and Edd. She skipped over his frank account of the bombing and its humbling power, over the precise descriptions of the camp and the cold, and down to the end of the letter, her favourite part. “I miss you, Sansa. I trust that Clegane and your uncle are taking care of you and ensuring your safety. I hope to return to you soon.” Sansa smiled and hugged the letter to her chest, lit up from inside. She knew it was hardly poetry, or a romantic declaration of undying love, but it was sincere and affectionate and the fact that he’d written her a letter at all, a man who did nothing unnecessary, was proof of his devotion.

And she knew that because of Robb, her wedding night had been loving and special, a memory she treasured, and not the awkward, well-meant consummation of a partnership based on duty.

The next morning, long before sunup, she threw her suitcase into the canvas-covered back of the Tilly, next to Sandor’s holdall, and they drove out of the gates. The guards tried to slow them, to let them fetch Gen Tully for his approval. Sandor roared and glared and threatened with a verbose profanity that made Sansa blush, and the soldiers retreated, rushing off to wake Uncle Brynden while Sandor ground the car into a higher gear and moved the utility vehicle as fast as its tough tyres could carry it.  She hoped that Stannis wouldn’t hate her for this, that it wouldn’t cost her this marriage. But she could not let another member of her family suffer and die. She would be strong and brave for Rickon.


	18. Discovery

For weeks, the tough little Tilly ground its chained tyres over snow-encrusted roads and past iced-in homes scattered through the vast, open countryside of the North. With gruff instructions and barked orders, Sandor managed to teach the Little Bird to drive so that they could make better time. He learned to curl his bulk into the confined space of the cab, several sizes too small for him, and sleep while she squinted at the blinding, white road and steered around outsize potholes.

Christmas came and went, unmarked by Sandor and Sansa, neither of whom cared: Sansa because it meant nothing to her, and Sandor because even the fake memories of 20th century Christmases featured Gregor terrifying the household. The change of year meant little to them either, as they both had no more connection to 1945 than they had to 1944. They hugged tight to the east side of Long Lake, taking the relatively flat road between the lake and the Lonely Hills, keeping well clear of the ruins of the Dreadfort, before swinging toward the coast well south of preserved castle at Last Hearth.

On the far side of Last River, Sandor spotted a pub at a minor crossroads. He needed a break from their little space. Sansa had slept for most of the afternoon – for the last week, she had fallen asleep every afternoon as well as sleeping all night - breathing softly, silently, like the polite Little Bird she was, her leg just close enough to the gearstick that his left hand brushed above her knee with every gear change. He growled to himself to control his reaction to her; he reminded himself of Stannis’ threats; he tried not to look at the spot where here jumper and scarf hung just loose enough for him to glimpse a hint of lace covering her breast.

The Tilly shuddered to a halt by the door to the pub, only a few other trucks were dotted around its entrance. He reached over to brush a fallen lock of his Little Bird’s hair from her sleeping face.

“Wake the hell up, girl. You not sleep enough last night?” he groused. Sansa blinked open her eyes, staring right through him. “Found a pub. Let’s go.” He climbed out of the cab and slammed shut the door so hard that Sansa jumped in her seat and her eyes went wide. Possibly, he felt a bit guilty for startling her; she seemed exhausted. He adjusted his uniform: this far north, there were no questions of loyalty to Stannis, and the uniform earned him automatic respect, but something more, something his kingsguard cloak had never afforded him: sincere appreciation. He admitted to himself, if no one else, that he finally felt like he was on the right side.

Sansa stumbled as she clambered out of the passenger door. Standing right at her elbow, he helped her up while she gazed around her, dazed with too much sleep. He half-dragged her through the heavy, iron-banded wooden door to the pub, which looked like it could have been standing here, guarding this crossroads, from their time to this. The inside of the pub smelled of meat pies and ale, and Sandor felt some of his grumpiness at the Little Bird’s lethargic beauty melt away.

“Little Bird looks too thin. No wonder you can’t keep your blasted eyes open. You’ve not been eating enough,” Sandor bothered with his harsh voice. He slammed down a mug of ale and a large meat pie before her, and she startled again. She picked listlessly at the crust and turned down the ale altogether, asking behind the bar for a cup of hot tea instead. Sandor watched her toy with her food until the tea arrived, then he reached across the table and began roughly cutting open the pie on her plate. “Eat the fucking thing, don’t worry it to death,” he huffed. “We’ve been travelling for near a month and there’s at least another week to go until the coast at this rate. I’m pretty sure that my cock is on the line with Stannis if I let you starve to death.”

Looking up from her barely-touched food to her face at last, Sandor watched as the colour drained from the Little Bird’s cheeks and her eyes, pointed smack at his, seemed to be looking at something beyond himself and the pub around them. He snapped his fingers sharply right in front of her aristocratic nose, and those Tully blues dropped to her plate. She drew in a sharp breath. “We’ve been travelling for near a month…”

“That’s what I just fucking said…”

“More like three and a bit weeks, right?”

“Near enough. What is the matter, Little Bird?”

“So three weeks, and about fortnight more in Winterfell, and maybe a bit more than a fortnight before that.”  Sansa was staring into the rich gravy bleeding across her plate, dotted with steak and peas and carrots, concentrating hard. “Oh, seven save us, Sandor.” Her eyes were wide as saucers as she glanced up to hold his gaze. “I’m with child.”

Sandor hauled back on the creaky chair as though she’d slapped him. “Oh, fuck,” he breathed. Then, more fiercely, “You sure, Little Bird?”

“That’s seven weeks at least, Sandor,” she shook her head. “I’m so stupid.” She grabbed for the hand that still held his steak knife. “We’re all alone together. He’ll think…”

“I know what he’ll bloody cunting well think, Little Bird! He’ll think I’ve fucked the queen and that your little stag might be a hound.” He growled and pulled the hand holding the knife from beneath hers, then slammed the knife into the oak table so hard that it poked through the other side. “He’ll think that I tried to put my own get on the Iron Throne.”

Sandor felt his anger starting to boil and bubble under his skin, and under his hard stare, Sansa started to shift uncomfortably, looking around her. He could read her thoughts: she’s searching the room for allies, for anyone who might intervene if he decided to beat that babe out of her right here in the middle of a public house. He snorted to himself at the ludicrous idea that he’d hurt a red hair on her pretty head, but he’d seen her beaten by knights before, and he knew all about her reasons to be nervous.

“How do you feel?” he finally managed to ask, rather civilly, he thought.

Sansa laughed hysterically, her eyes wild. “How do I _feel_? My husband is going to put us both to death for treason.”

Sandor shook his head. “No, Little Bird, I’ve seen how that man looks at you. Me, he’ll kill. But not you. Never you.”

Sansa shook her head right back at him. “You have no idea. When he first met me, he nearly sent me back to Cersei. Then he threatened me with a firing squad for killing Ramsay Bolton.” She took deep breaths. “He will not hesitate to execute me.”

Sandor reached back across the table and caught both of her flailing hands. Cersei's name reminded him of the rules about pregnant women, having guarded the queen through all 3 of her pregnancies. He couldn't let Sansa panic.  “Little Bird, listen to me. You need to calm down. You will convince the king that the babe is his: he’ll want to believe it, and we have the benefit of it being the thrice-damned truth. He’ll be angry about our little sojourn, aye – murderous, perhaps - but we will return with your little brother and a true-bred Baratheon, the heir to the Iron Throne if that’s a boy you’re cooking in there. He’s not going to turn that down.” Sandor patted her hands awkwardly and released her. “So, how are you feeling?”

“Tired. Tired all the time,” she sighed. “I can’t keep my eyes open.”

“But not sick? Cersei threw up everything for a month. With all three.”

Sansa wrinkled her perfect nose. “No, not sick. I don’t really want to eat, but I don’t feel bad.”

Sandor picked up his steak knife again and gestured to the cooling pie in front of her. “Well, you can’t grow a babe on air, Little Bird. So eat up.”

…

For fifty miles north of the Eastwatch, Stannis had burned The Haunted Forest to the ground, leaving a seemingly unending landscape of charcoal and granite, thick with the ice of melted and refrozen snow. He didn’t think much of it being haunted; surely by now even the spirits had charred and died.  He and Tormund panted in the cold air, still biting at their lungs despite a recent rise in temperatures. They tried to pull a mile at a time, more west than south, and even with the weight of Edd in a makeshift sled, they still managed to outpace Jon, near-crippled with his injuries. They weren’t going to return to Eastwatch. The bombed ground was poisoned by a scientific witchcraft, so they ranged away from the bombsite, trying to meet their troops by The Torches. The whole area was abandoned in Stannis’ time, but in this world he was told there was a small enclave there, and Davos had agreed to move the army and air force out of harm’s way once the bombing had done its work.  

They had found the Night King and two of his White Walkers deep in the old forest, dead Children and sprites leading a path to their last stand. Stannis had taken down the Walkers with a flame thrower, but even the flames had failed against the King of Always Winter. Jon had produced a dagger of dragonglass, hidden inside his shirt, and driven it through the monster’s heart. But Jon had taken a sword point through his thigh, and Edd a cracked skull. Edd hadn’t reopened his eyes in the week since they’d killed the Night King.

Tormund stopped at the crest of a hill, compass in hand, to check their course. Stannis let Edd’s pallet sink gently into the earth. They could see forest here again, healthy trees and snow sloping to the south. Stannis fumbled beneath the blankets tucked around Edd and found the clunky portable radio. It never picked anything up, but he tried again at each high point, hoping that eventually someone would respond, and send a convoy to pick them up. This time, among the static, a faint voice. Unmistakably Davos’s harsh Fleabottom accent.

“Davos? Do you read us?” Stannis shouted down the receiver.

A long crackle of static followed, but finally, “Stannis? Sir, yes, fuck, we read you.” He could hear Davos clearing his throat even over the crackling connection. “That is, copy, Field Marshal. Report position, sir.”

Tormund dropped to the snow with his equipment, and huffed out the latitude and longitude, the minutes and seconds, of the unremarkable hill on which they stood, slowly dying of starvation and cold and injuries. He hadn’t let himself think that, but now that rescue was at hand, he admitted their situation… Edd possibly beyond help already, Jon weakened by blood loss and folded over in pain with each step, every day less and less likely to make it another half-mile, both he and Tormund chewing tree bark against the hunger.

Stannis knelt next to Jon and Edd on the ridge, listening to the roar of a plane engine being started in the background as Davos spoke, calm and reassuring, of medical supplies and food and warmth if they just hung on and waited at their current position.

Jon finally found the strength for a hollow laugh, “As though we’re capable of walking to some other position.” Stannis reached out and gripped his shoulder, and even Tormund sat in silence until they heard the plane’s engine again, this time overhead. They didn’t even cheer as it landed.

…

The Skagosi hated everyone. They hated the Wildlings, the Northmen, the Night’s Watch, all soldiers, anyone from Essos, and even the hundred or so people on Skane, the tiny and desolate island to the north. They hated more than Sandor himself had managed to hate, and that was a fucking impressive accomplishment. But what they really hated - more than mainlanders, more than _Southrons_ (pronounced with a hefty spit to the ground) - were Starks _._   Their conquerors - so long ago that it was a half-forgotten ancient history lesson even for Sandor - the dirt-loving, book-reading Starks who had tried to impose their will on the savages of Skagos.

Which made the current view from Sandor’s comfortable, upholstered chair even more odd. There sat Sansa, all grace and charm and easy-to-love bright blue eyes, in her silk blouse and cashmere cardigan with its sparkly buttons, her stockinged ankles crossed at the base of her armchair by the fire, her enormous Baratheon ring peeking from her demurely folded hands, her fluttery talk filling the warm, stone room. The Skagosi mayor – he himself – was topping up her tea and stirring in the milk and sugar. His fierce-looking wife was handing her a plate of roasted meat sandwiches, a luxury in wartime.

Her sworn shield kicked back and ate sandwiches and drank the offered beer as the elders of Skagos nodded along to her tale, her heart-wrenching, charming tale, of a lost little brother. A brother so loved that she had left mere days after her own wedding to find him. Travelled across the harsh winter lands to come and collect him, and to offer her sincerest thanks and lifelong gratitude to the brave, steadfast people who had cared for him in his hour of greatest need.  The best people on earth: the Skagosi. Sansa was so convincing that she was actually tearing up. Sandor snorted in his corner of the room, earning him a scowl from Sansa that rather brought to mind her husband. It only served to bring his attention to her half-finished sandwich. He coughed pointedly and nodded to her abandoned plate of food; she sighed quietly and picked the sandwich back up, chewing laboriously, until she had finished the whole thing. Sandor had warned her that he could not return her thinner while she was carrying the king’s heir, and he’d been watching her food intake like a hawk ever since. 

Completely won over, the Skagosi wasted no time in producing a feral-looking, ragged boy with wild red hair, his stripy school jumper askew, once shoe with its laces untied and the other missing completely, his teeth bared like a wolf. Sansa gasped and stood, immediately walking to him, but not reaching out. Rickon sniffed her like an animal, pushing his nose against her hair, running his fingers over her face, then he had let loose a long, broken howl of, “Mother!” Sansa burst into tears and hugged him, not bothering to correct him. And the warriors of Skagos forgot themselves and whistled and clapped for the Stark reunion.

Rickon crawled into Sansa’s bed that night, and she sang him the same lullabies that she had sung to him as a baby. Sandor lay in the corridor, across the threshold to her room, listening to the old songs drifting through the door. Rickon’s cries and snuffles filtered through as well, and Sansa’s answering shush and coo. After two hours of this, the room fell into silence and Sandor was about to sleep himself, when the door opened and closed softly with only the barest hint of creaking hinges, and Sansa emerged. Her hair had worked free of the plait, and her shoulders and chest were covered in the mud ground into Rickon’s untamed head. He sat propped against the wall and looked up at her as Sansa’s tear-stained eyes looked down at him. Eventually, he patted a bare space of stone floor next to him. Sansa sunk to the ground and sat stiffly next to him. She stared at the wall opposite for a long while, saying nothing, then finally sighed and gave up all pretence of posture, and slumped against his shoulder. Sandor worked his arm around her shoulders. He longed to run his free hand up her thigh, between her legs, and stroke his fingers against her cunt until she begged him to take her.

But Sandor knew better by now than to let his cock lead where his brain would unlikely survive the journey. He pressed a chaste kiss into Sansa’s hair, and he sent her back into her bed with her kid brother.

Once the door clicked shut, Sandor adjusted himself and swore under his breath. What had that wench’s name been? The one buzzing around him for the last day? He remembered clear enough the curly blond hair tamed into a rough plait down her back and the mouth-watering teats in the tight blue dress that ended above her knees. She had smiled invitingly enough, and he knew that a few drinks in the local pub and some enquiries would yield her whereabouts. If Stannis would cut off his cock for this trip to Skagos, he may as well make use of it before they began the return trip.

…

“The ice is melting.”

Stannis grunted a vague response. Across the dilapidated room, Davos was staring out the window of their makeshift headquarters again, pondering the shift in the weather for the umpteenth time in the last 48 hours. They’d relocated to Castle Black this morning, as soon as Edd could be moved, in preparation for the return trip to Winterfell. Edd had regained consciousness temporarily five days ago and once again earlier today. Stannis was due for another shift at his bedside in half an hour, and then they would complete the pull-back of his troops to Winterfell. He intended to leave at sunup tomorrow, taking the plane with Edd and Jon. They had begun sending back troops and tanks overland three days ago.

Stannis had heard nothing from Sansa, not for weeks, and he almost couldn’t think for the mix of worry and anger and something that felt a little like jealousy clouding his mind. Bran, so useful in tracking the Night King, had nothing to offer, either, and Stannis was never quite sure if beneath Bran’s poker face he knew nothing or simply would say nothing.

“Stannis, did you hear me? The trip back south might take longer if our tanks get stuck in wet ground. The snow and ice have just… vanished. It’s the strangest thing,” Davos muttered the final words.

“Ice melts, Colonel. Every year,” Stannis muttered back from his stack of papers authorising the final troop movements.

“Not in January, and not this far north,” Davos shot him an incredulous look.

Stannis looked up. He didn’t know how to respond. Clearly, when Jon had killed the Night King, the worst of the cold had eased. However, this explanation involved magic, and he couldn’t very well explain to a 1945 Davos that seasons lasted for years, rather than corresponding to specific calendar dates, and that the death of the King of Ice had sped up the arrival of spring.

“Don’t you have some work to do that doesn’t involve incessant commentary on the weather? It’s still distressingly cold, just slightly less so than before,” he snapped. The grumpiness wasn’t entirely a ruse to stop Davos asking awkward questions; Stannis had spent every night away from Winterfell fantasizing about his wife. And most of the days, too, if he were honest about it. He imagined her in that big, soft, elegant bed in the lord’s chambers, spread out below him, a fire crackling in the hearth (this had been almost as important as Sansa’s naked, willing body while he was trekking the frozen forest), her legs open and her glorious wet warmth stretched around…

“Yes, sir,” Davos nodded. “I’ll find Gen Targaryen and ready the plane for our departure.”

Stannis half-heartedly returned Davos’ salute and then allowed himself to linger in his dream long enough to press a kiss to dream-Sansa’s mouth, and tell her that he loved her, as recompense for turning her so wanton, even if only in his head.  But it was no use, that final night in a camp bed, Sansa consumed every thought and every sense, even the memory of her perfume overcoming the stale air of the dusty, creaking wooden room in a now-decrepit Castle Black. He could remember the spartan but well-maintained fortress it had once been, with Jon in command. He realised with a start that when – if – this illusion of time lifted, there would be no need for The Wall, no need for the Night’s Watch, no need to send men ranging out into the frozen wastelands of the Far North. The magnitude of what he, Jon, Tormund, Davos, Edd and Danearys had accomplished had been sinking into him over the last few days.

Now he could focus everything South and finally take the Iron Throne.  If only he could also find the switch that turned 1945 back into their own time.

The night passed slowly, with frequent trips to check on Edd, now maintaining consciousness for longer periods under Sam’s diligent care. Stannis did not sleep, could not calm down enough to sleep. He had spent so little time with Sansa, slept with her far too few times, and his thoughts about her grew cruder with each day he spent away from Winterfell. He would have to master himself when he met her again tomorrow, to keep from fucking her into the dirt in the courtyard the moment he saw her.

Contact with Winterfell had been patchy before the bombing, but once he’d ranged North after the Night King, Stannis had heard only a bare minimum of information via the pilots since their return. Gen Tully had sent no word of his wife, only the working operations of Winterfell.

Stannis was at the airfield before daybreak; he carried Edd’s stretcher with Sam, waited for Jon to haul himself, still grunting over his injury, into a seat. Stannis had to bite down into his lower lip to stop his feet and hands from tapping out his impatience, and he spent the whole flight thus, almost silent, teeth grinding as quietly as he could manage, trying to ignore the searching looks that Jon kept sending his way. By the time they touched down, Stannis’ pent-up energy made him all but run to the nearest vehicle and scare the teenaged driver near to death with barked orders to the hotel, faster, faster, could he make this fucking bloody shit truck move any faster, that was an order. So in the end, he rode into Winterfell flinging mud in all directions, sliding to a stop just before the truck hit the stone-faced Blackfish, standing in the courtyard looking far, far too serious. Stannis lost all sense, kicking open the door before the teenager had managed to brake the truck to a stop.

He strode the few feet to Tully, who had gone ashen in the few moments it took Stannis to reach him, and demanded to know: “Where is she?”

“Field Marshal, welcome back. Please follow…”

“Where _is_ she?” he repeated through his teeth.

The Blackfish had the audacity to turn his back on him, trying to lead Stannis inside. “Field Marshal, if you will just follow me into…”

“Tully, you best tell me where my wife is, righthererightnow, or I will execute you myself now for gross insubordination,” he barked, only just managing not to reach for the man’s throat.

The Blackfish let out a breath and turned to face him, straightened his back, and let out the news: “Sansa disappeared from Winterfell, along with Sandor Clegane, just before Christmas. We had our first news of her yesterday: she had been in Skagos, where she recovered her brother, Rickon. She and Clegane must be returning now, as all we know of her location is that she is no longer on Skagos, and that Rickon and Clegane left with her.  I suspect that they will drive back via Last Hearth, where the roads are better, as the thaw has made the muddy back roads impassable.”

Stannis inhaled and exhaled a few times, still ready to rip someone apart with his bare hands. “She is alive? Well?”

“She is alive; I’ve heard nothing to suggest that she is unwell.”

Stannis nodded curtly, slowly, his fists and jaw still clenched, and ordered Tully to follow him to his office. Now Tully stopped him, and Stannis swung round with a raised eyebrow. “Something more, general?”

At this the Blackfish stepped right into him and gripped one shoulder. “Stannis, I…” Tully met his eyes and struggled for words, his voice low. “I have just had word… The town of Dreadfort fell to the Nazis this morning. A blitzkrieg attack; they were completely overwhelmed.” Stannis could only stare blankly, his heart freezing. “I have already sent planes to locate her and Clegane and the boy. Stannis, we will find her.”

“No, uncle, we won’t,” Stannis shifted his gaze to find Bran speaking to them, Jon and Davos behind him. “Come inside, good-brother,” Bran whispered low to Stannis so his uncle would not overhear. “Let me tell you what I’ve seen.”


	19. Freunde und Feinde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm just going to stop making empty promises about when I can update this thing! A whole shedload of stuff happened. And so many great stories on the yacht have been updated and I've not even had a chance to read them! Tragedy. Anyway, back to the Sansa and Sandor roadtrip... 
> 
> There is discussion of rape in this chapter and the next, so please be ever so kind to yourselves if this might be triggering.

Sansa craned her head back so often to check on Rickon, bouncing happily on a mattress in the back of the Tilly, that Sandor began growling at her every time she did it. Rickon had been transformed by a long, thorough bath and a lot of coaxing from Sandor on the necessity for soldiers to wear shoes. Rickon had been taken with an instant hero-worship of the big man. And now, off down a tarmacked road with Sandor behind the wheel, Rickon looked happy and clean and so much like a young Robb that it nearly broke Sansa’s heart every time she glanced back.

“He’s bloody fine, Little Bird,” Sandor snarled. “You should be getting some sleep.” He rummaged in down by the gear stick and came up with a brown bag. “Have a rock cake – god knows where the Skagosi came up with currants. May as well enjoy them before Rickon eats them all.”

“I’m not hungry, Sandor, truly,” she tried, but when he took his eyes off the road long enough for solid glare at her, she picked one up and began eating it in miniscule bites. “I’m eating plenty, so you can stop this.”

“You are still too thin. Stannis won’t like it.” He flashed his eyes her way to check on her progress with the cake. “There’s some tea in the flask,” he added.

She flinched and Rickon squealed in delight as the Tilly bounced over another rough patch of road and Sandor swerved hard right to avoid another. She reached for the flask and drank some of the lukewarm tea. “This road’s in better shape than I imagined,” Sandor continued. “We’ll be in Last Hearth today and we’ll find Mors Umber. Maybe he can send a telegram to Winterfell tonight; Stannis may be back.”

Sansa let one hand drift to her flat belly; they knew from the moment the thaw began that the Night King must have been defeated. But the radio news would never give out information about Stannis’s whereabouts, or Jon’s, or even say if they were alive. She worried every waking moment that one or both of them hadn’t made it.  But in the middle of the night, when everyone else was asleep, Sansa hid herself under the covers where the gods couldn’t see, and she just smiled and smiled until her face hurt, feeling hope and giddy pleasure in her secret. She loved this little baby already, no matter the consequences or circumstances, and she just wanted to chat away to him or her, sing lullabies and eat everything that gruff, oddly midwifey Sandor pushed her way.

She wanted Stannis to know about the baby, too, and she tried to imagine his reaction. In her happier moments, he swept her up in a soul-warming hug, kissed her deeply, told her that she and this baby meant the world to him. More often, she accepted that his anger and pride would ensure a harsher response; last night, she’d woken sweating from a nightmare where he’d pressed a knife to her belly and explained – clearly and with carefully suppressed rage – why she’d failed the kingdom, as he slowly pressed in the blade. When awake, she tried her best to control her thoughts: Sandor kept repeating that worry was bad for the baby, but he was so clearly worried that these ‘reassurances’ did little to allay her fears.  

She considered asking Sandor to pull over for the umpteenth time that day to let her make water, but then they crested a small hill and saw the little town of Last Hearth below them, with its neat roads curving  around the remarkably intact castle and its rows of chocolate-box cottages with tidy gardens in front and behind.  Sansa near-giggled. She would find a loyal Stark bannerman in Mors, even if her mother had called him a brute. He was their brute; he was a brute declared for Stannis.

On the outskirts of town, Sandor pulled into Last Hearth’s only petrol station. A young man in a rumpled uniform and workworn boots tumbled out of the attendant’s shack and scurried over to them.  He looked surprised to see them. Really surprised, and it raised every one of Sandor’s hackles, Sansa could tell. Still, Sandor got out of the Tilly and raised himself up to his full, intimidating height, and growled that he wanted to know the whereabouts of Umber.

The boy’s eyes swept briefly over Sansa with a sort of recognition, then fell to Sandor’s boots and stayed there. “Old Colonel Umber’s at home, sir.” Sansa smiled quietly as she plainly saw Sandor bite back the words ‘not a ser’. “I mean, I don’t know if he’s at home right now, might be at town hall, but he’s home meaning here in town, I mean I couldn’t say…”

“Yeah, got it, boy,” Sandor barked, making the attendant jump. “We want to visit him. This –“ Sandor jerked his head towards Sansa – “is a friend of the family. So where the fuck’s this town hall, then?” 

Staring resolutely at Sandor’s feet, the boy talked Sandor through the directions to the town hall, past the chemist on the right, then left at the greengrocer and onto the high street. Sandor motioned for the boy to fill the petrol tank, and Sansa took Rickon and forced him to use the toilet and wash his face and currant-sticky fingers. She wanted Ned Stark’s son to make as good an impression as possible on Last Hearth. By the time she returned to the truck, Sandor was eyeing the boy with such a vicious suspicion that she thought the teenager might truly wet his trousers.

He pulled her to the side, out of earshot while the boy finished pumping the petrol. “Little Bird, you sure Umber’s loyal to the North? You ever see him with Bolton?”

“Smalljon, yes, but Mors is loyal to Stannis.” She flicked her gaze to the attendant, now scurrying back into the small shop of spare parts and mended tyres. “We should seek out Mors, no question, and ask him to get a message to Stannis.”

Sandor grunted, perturbed. “Something’s not right. The situation has changed somehow. Everywhere I’ve gone in a Westerosi uniform, people’ve been falling over themselves to show me respect. Now this little shit can’t lift his eyes above my boots?”

Fifteen minutes of driving through the eerily-quiet streets of Last Hearth had Sandor growling almost nonstop. They pulled up in front of the town hall, its doors shut against the cold. They could feel eyes on them from every window overlooking the high street. Sansa held Rickon’s hand as she climbed the neatly shovelled steps, Sandor behind them with his hand twitching at his service weapon. Inside, the hall was silent as a sept, with one jittery clerk at a window, who came round herself to show them to Umber’s office upstairs, hurrying all the way and glancing around herself. She opened the heavy double doors and near-pushed Sansa and Rickon inside and tapped impatiently for Sandor to follow. She shut the doors behind them firmly, herself on the outside.

Mors Umber rushed forward to Sansa, hugging her to him with a gruff chuckle, reaching over to ruffle Rickon’s hair. “Sansa Stark!” he grinned, setting her away from himself for a better look at her.  “And little Rickon! I feared I might never see Ned Stark’s little ones again, after the massacre at Twinton, and all this bad business with the Boltons. But we took back Winterfell, eh? And you, my dear, let me look at you. Don’t think I’ve seen you since before this one was born,” he smiled at Rickon.

“Sit, girl, sit. We have little time. Who’s this?” he gestured to Sandor, standing at the window with his gun in hand.

“My name’s Clegane, and the Field Marshal himself assigned me to protect the Little Bird. She and the boy need to get back to Winterfell fast. I have a bad feeling…”

Mors cut him off. “It’s not just a feeling. The Nazis took the Dreadfort three days ago, and they blitzed across tundra in no time. Took Last Hearth yesterday. But I’ve been left here. As bait.”

Sansa stood roughly, toppling her chair behind. Mors gripped her forearms. “We have only a few moments. Soldiers came, Westerosi turncloaks in Nazi uniforms from the Vale, but led by a civilian.”

“Petyr,” Sansa breathed, at the same time Sandor spat, “Baelish.” Sansa broke free of Mors and held out her hand to Rickon, who rushed to her and threw his arms around her waist. “We must flee. Sandor, we can head north perhaps…”

“No time, girl,” Mors shook his head emphatically. “They’ll have spotted you coming in. Baelish will walk through those doors any minute, and if I don’t hand you over, he’ll slaughter the town. He was waiting for you; knew you’d come through somewhere between the Dreadfort and north of here, so he’s spread a net for you.”

“How did he know…” she hugged Rickon tight and sought Sandor’s eyes.

“That shitstain’s got fucking ears everywhere, Little Bird. Even Skagos, it seems.”

Mors adjusted his eyepatch and rounded his desk to stand beside his chair. “Neither Dreadfort nor Last Hearth have strategic importance, Sansa. Stannis’ forces could blow this area to Kingdom Come in no time and neutralise the threat; wouldn’t cost him many soldiers or even lost sleep, but he’s not done it because he won’t risk fire-bombing his wife. There’s no good reason for the Nazis to take this area, and I’m not sure why The Vale has switched allegiances. This is Baelish’s personal mission; he must be telling Cersei that he’ll bring you to her.”

The thud of boots of on the stone steps of the building sent Sansa and Sandor to the window. They could see a sleek, black car with Nazi flags fluttering from the bonnet pull up in front. Petyr stepped out in a sharp suit, flanked by a tall, blonde Nazi officer that Sansa recognised: Harry Hardyng.

“Oh gods,” she gasped. “Sandor…”

“Don’t panic, Little Bird. He’s not gone to all this trouble to kill you.” Sandor drew her into an embrace and whispered directly in her ear: “Think of the babe, girl. Stay calm and survive, be smart. We will get you back. Me, Stannis, your brothers and uncle, Brienne: we will get you back. Never doubt it.” He grabbed Sansa’s chin and forced her to look in his eyes. “Do no doubt it, girl.”

She nodded and stepped back, letting Mors lead her and Rickon behind his desk with him. “Col Umber, you must save Sandor. Please. Don’t let them hurt him. Promise.”

Mors nodded. “You trust in me, soldier,” he said to Sandor. “No matter what I say…” The doors snapped open and two Nazi soldiers stood at either side of the doorway, letting Harry sweep through.

“There she is!” Harry cried, as though seeing a friend at a party. “We meet again, Miss Stark.” He snatched her hand and pressed hard kiss to her fingers, a smirk playing at his lips. “And it seems that the Field Marshal is nowhere near to intervene this time.”

“Capt Hardying, do step away from Mrs Baratheon,” Petyr eased past the Umber guard that had pushed into the room behind Harry. He wore a dark blue suit and a black silk tie, an expensive contrast to the military uniforms surrounding him. “I must congratulate you on your marriage, Sansa. Did you not know, Captain? The beautiful Sansa is a Stark no more, but the wife of Westeros’ military commander.” Petyr put his hand out for Sansa to take. She simply stared at it, her feet frozen to the ground. Glancing towards a growling noise by the window, Petyr seemed to unsettle for a moment at the sight of Sandor. “Well, who have we here? Clegane?”

Sandor snarled a “fuck off” and started towards him, but Mors Umber called out to his men, “Arrest this man. Toss him our cells.” Four of Umber’s soldiers subdued Sandor and dragged him out the door. “No need to worry, Mr Baelish. We will make certain that Clegane never emerges from custody.” Mors gave nothing away to Sansa, not even a squeeze of her shoulder. “Well, you wanted the girl, Mr Baelish, and I have delivered her. And her little brother, into the bargain.” He gave Sansa and Rickon a shove in Petyr’s direction. Even in this realm, Sansa thought, he smelled of mint and deceit.

Petyr raised an eyebrow at Rickon, who snarled at him just as Sandor had. He waved an uninterested arm at the boy, “You take the boy, Umber. Deliver him to General Jon Snow with my compliments.” He knelt down to Rickon’s level. “Tell your brother that Petyr Baelish has your sister in his very safest keeping,” he smiled, then raised himself back to standing and put an arm around Sansa’s waist and pulled her close. “Come, my dear, you must have had most trying day. We have much to discuss.”

“Herr Baelish,” Harry snapped to a halt in front of Sansa and Petyr. “We must return Miss Stark – or Mrs Baratheon, even better – to Cersei Lannister immediately. She authorised this mission with the express orders that…”

“Capt Hardying, I am well aware of the orders. I financed, planned and led this mission personally. I will transport Mrs Baratheon to King’s Landing in due course.”  Wincing, Sansa felt his fingers flexing against her ribcage, just barely low enough beneath her breasts to save the gesture from obscenity. “But first I should like to have a talk with her, and I’m sure that Mrs Baratheon would appreciate a chance to rest and bathe before the long flight.” He turned his face to Sansa and nudged her gently with his forehead. “Wouldn’t you, Sansa?”

Sansa followed as Petyr tugged her forward, not chancing a glance back at Rickon and Mors. There was no chance of jumping from a window and running this time. No Theon to save her. Even though she’d tried so hard to hide it, the gods must have seen her happiness about Stannis, or about the babe, and now she was going to lose everything. As Petyr led her down the stairs and into the back of his sleek Opel sedan, Sansa silently apologised to the son or daughter she now feared she’d killed along with herself.

…

 “They’re in Westerosi uniform, sir. Men from Last Hearth, I think,” Gendry set down his binoculars and pointed across the half-thawed field of muddy slush. Stannis snagged the binoculars for himself to confirm Gendry’s impression of the dirt-encrusted vehicle making its way towards them, a white flag flying from its passenger window. 

“Umber men,” he confirmed, his heart stopping and restarting. “Let them into the camp. They may have news.” _They may have Sansa,_ he thought _. Is it possible that Umber might have gotten her out before Baelish showed up?_

Stannis and Gendry scrambled down from their vantage point on a platform hastily slung between two noble pines, Gendry passing on Stannis’ orders in a harsh shout to the soldiers nearest the edge of the thick woods. With the flag waving prominently, the jeep skidded to a stop in the mud 50 yards from the trees.

An Umber man jumped down from the back, flag in hand, and made a show of laying his firearm on the ground in front of him, slowly and clearly. Carefully raising himself back up, he called into the trees, “I’ve been sent to Jon Snow. Mors Umber sends me, and I have Snow’s brother.”

“Unharmed!” the driver of the jeep yells in a rush. “Rickon Stark… he’s safe. We swear it!”

Stannis grabbed a loudhailer from one of his soldiers. “All of you out of the vehicle. Guns on the ground. Turn around and lay flat on the grass.” Knocking the speaker impatiently against the bark of a tree, Stannis watched three men tumble from the jeep and do as he’d asked. He motioned to Gendry and three of the soldiers to follow him, guns drawn, approaching the vehicle carefully. The soldiers covered the men on the ground, while Stannis and Gendry approached the jeep from either side. Shouldering the open door a bit wider, Stannis crouched down and squinted into the dark of the covered jeep. Huddled in the furthest seat back was a young boy, his knees pulled up to his chin, hiccupping through his tears. Stannis flicked the safety back onto his gun and tucked it away before tucking himself into the driver’s seat, his back to the steering wheel, facing the boy.

“Rickon?” he asked gently. The boy nodded jerkily. “I am Stannis Baratheon, your sister’s husband.”

“I want Jon!” Rickon screamed. “You’re not Jon! I remember Jon.”

Stannis put up both his hands, palms out. “Jon’s not here, Rickon. Jon is a brave soldier, and he’s gone on a different mission to help free your sister. Okay? It’s just me here, but I’m your family now, too.” Rickon sobbed and shook his head wildly, his curls flying around his face. “Rickon, Sansa married me. Jon and Bran were there, at the wedding. Sansa looked so pretty, Rickon. Jon and Bran walked her down the aisle.”

Rickon sniffled. “Sansa told me. She told me about you. Sandor told me, too.”

“Right, then. So, really, we’re brothers. Since I married your sister, that makes me your brother. Just like Jon is your brother.” Stannis tried to maintain his patience. He glanced over and saw that his soldiers were taking the Umber men into the woods. The jeep was only a few football fields’ length from the garrison at Last Hearth, not nearly out of range of Nazi tanks. “Rickon, it’s not that safe here in the jeep. Give me your hand please, and I’ll take you into our camp. We could get you some hot tea, yes?”

Rickon considered the offer, but Stannis thought he saw a glint of moving metal at the far edge of the field. “Sir!” Gendry spoke from the passenger-side door. He’d seen it, too.

“Rickon, quick, with me,” Stannis ordered, and when Rickon hesitated, he snatched the boy bodily from the back seat and dragged him from the jeep, kicking and yelling. “It’s okay, Rickon,” he repeated as he and Gendry turned to run for the woods. They’d made it half the distance before the Nazi tank fired on the jeep, sending a hail of flaming shrapnel towards them as they hit the ground, Rickon tucked safely beneath Stannis’ body. The boy went utterly still, and when Stannis and Gendry rose to run the rest of the way to the line of trees, their own tanks firing back, Rickon threw his arms around Stannis’ neck and clung to his newfound brother.

Stannis carried Rickon until they’d reached the far side of the camp as the shooting stopped. Sputtering apologies, Sam Tarly stumbled over to them. Stannis set Rickon on the ground, checking him all over but not seeing any signs of damage apart from a scraped temple where he’d been forced to push the boy to the ground. While Sam looked the boy over, Stannis sank onto a tree truck and took the child by the arms.

“Rickon, can you tell me about Sansa? Where is she?”

“Petyr Baelish,” Rickon gushed. “He said his name is Petyr Baelish, and he said I should tell that to Jon. The other man grabbed Sansa…”

“What other man?”

“Baelish called him Hardying. Sansa didn’t like him. And she didn’t like Baelish. She looked scared.” Rickon looked up at Stannis. “Is he going to kill her like they killed mother and Robb?”

“No, Rickon. Baelish doesn’t plan to kill her.” Bran had been clear and nauseatingly detailed about Baelish’s plans for Sansa, and while none of it involved her death, the memory of Bran’s description  closed around his heart like an icy fist.

“Hardying said they had to give her to Cersei Lannister. Mors Umber said the same thing. Who’s Cersei Lannister? Sandor said she was a fucking bitch that should burn in seven hells,” Rickon confided in a whisper.

Raising an eyebrow, Stannis agreed that it was an apt description, and Rickon explained that Mors had sent Sandor away to a cell. Motioning Sam back over, Stannis called out, “Capt Tarly, find my little brother here some food, then arrange a flight back to Winterfell for him. Send Major Tarth with him.”  He smoothed his hand over the boy’s mess of dark red curls, thinking of the care Sansa had taken over Shireen and trying to pay back some small measure of it. His wife had risked her life to save this boy, and Stannis tried his utmost not to feel shortchanged by his presence and the lack of hers. He would see her brother safe back to Bran, waiting at Winterfell, while he trained every gun and tank he had left on Last Hearth, a town he couldn’t attack without risking Sansa.

 _I’ve seen her, only flashes_ – Bran had told him, having sent Jon out of the room – _not her now, it’s a future vision. She’s not crying, but she’s in pain. Baelish is on top of her, pressing her into the bed. She’s naked, and she’s scared, and he won’t stop. More than anything she is so deeply sad, crushed, because she’s convinced you will reject her. She’s looking out the window at a tree with… it’s an incense cedar, snow on the branches. She’s in Last Hearth, at the Umber’s villa._

Stannis had been furious – with Sansa for risking her life and her safety, for disobeying him and leaving Winterfell, for believing him capable of giving her up because an evil man raped her. He wasn’t furious anymore. Through Gendry’s binoculars he could make out the edge of the Umber mansion in Last Hearth, and just beyond the west wall of the building, nearest him, was a beautiful, ancient incense cedar swaying in the breeze. A drift of snowflakes was catching in its branches.

Better than most, Stannis knew that every battle needed a different plan. The Night’s King? Overwhelming fire power and the tenacity to finish the job. The siege of Storm’s End? Self-sacrifice and the ability to hold your men together in the face of a slow death. Winterfell? Well-prepared troops, inside information and a solid plan of attack. But this one required something far more nuanced, and Stannis could only sit, useless guns trained on an occupied town, and hope that his strategy would save his wife.


	20. Strategy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's been a long while. But here we are again.

If modernity had softened Stannis’ hard edges and made him freer with his affection, it had also freed Petyr Baelish. No longer constrained by the stringent social hierarchy of The Dragon Age, Petyr evidently did not feel the need for subterfuge when it came to his lust. Sansa stood in the house he had commandeered, in the bedroom he had chosen for them, staring at the bed he intended to share with her. On the short drive over, she had been ticking through every argument she could think of that might postpone him raping her, but nothing seemed likely to sway him. He’d held her close in the backseat of the chauffeured car, his hands roaming indecently over arms and along her ribs, saying nothing while other ears could hear. 

The only power she’d ever had over Petyr was his hope that she might want him back, that she would choose him in the end, that they would rule together. But he’d force her if it was the only way to have her, no doubt, and if it came to that, his illusion would shatter. She’d be nothing but his prisoner, and he’d turn her over to Cersei when he was done with her. But if she could make him believe that she would give him what he’d always dreamed of... 

Petyr leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom, smiling knowingly at her, letting his eyes take a long, slow look at her body under the short modern skirt, her legs lifted in heels. She steeled herself. It felt hundreds of years ago that she’d had him lusting after her in the Vale, but it had been less than a year. Forgive me, Stannis, she thought, but I must save our child. 

She turned fully to him, let her eyes fill with tears, and sobbed, “Oh, Petyr, you came for me!” Then she threw herself into his embrace. Petyr staggered a step or two, then recovered and pulled her in to his chest, drawing a deep breath of her scent and pressing a kiss to her head. 

“My darling girl, of course I came for you. I’m only sorry it couldn’t have been sooner,” he breathed into her hair. 

“Rickon?” she asked, letting her cheek rest against his pristine suit. She noticed that the mockingbird pin he’d always worn to fasten his cloak was now a discreet tie pin. 

“Already on his way to your brother’s troops, just beyond those trees,” he indicated towards the west-facing window with his head. Sansa looked out the window: she could just make out the vague shape of a vehicle speeding towards the treeline. “I will protect you, Sansa, and yours.” 

“But a Nazi, Petyr? Cersei Lannister wants me dead, you can’t possibly…” 

“Sansa,” he laughed gently, stroking his hands up and down her back. He punctuated his pledges with kisses around her face. “I am playing the game. I have no intention of handing you over to Cersei. We can wait out this war in the safety of the Vale, and let Cersei and Stannis destroy each other. After the war, only I will have the resources to make sure that Westeros doesn’t starve. The people will love us… well, they’ll love you, and they’ll be grateful to me… the elections after the war will confirm us.” 

The room was dim; the only open window faced the heavy cloud cover of a light snow, and Petyr made no move to turn on the other lights. He was trying to seduce her, to weave a spell. It wasn’t working in the slightest. She kept trying for options: if she were Arya, she would kill him and escape through the window. Jon would kill him, too, then battle his way through the Nazi guards to the front door, where he would recruit the Umbers to his cause. Stannis would kill him and then redirect the Nazi soldiers into his own army through sheer force of will. Bran was too smart to have fallen into the trap in the first place. 

But Sansa was going to just lay there on that satiny bed and be raped. That was her big plan. She really was the most stupid, most weak, most useless member of her family. And Petyr was still spinning his horseshit… 

“…so sorry about Ramsay, my love. I didn’t know…” His hands were under her breasts. She could feel his arousal against her hip. “My beautiful girl, I have missed you so terribly. How did you wind up married to Stannis – that man could never appreciate a beautiful woman. Was it terrible, Sansa? Did he hurt you?” 

Sansa couldn’t bring herself to answer him; she didn’t want to pollute her memories by even saying Stannis’ name aloud in this situation. Ramsay had hurt her, and it had kept on hurting until Sam had helped her that first day in Jon’s tent. Petyr humiliated her time and again, and he was about to hurt her. Stannis would divorce her, of course, now that she was an adultress. He’d probably keep their babe, perhaps have it raised by nannies alongside Shireen. Perhaps, if they remained in this time, perhaps he’d let her visit the child? Shireen was so good and kind-hearted; Sansa felt certain that she would make up for all the love the child might miss, not having a mother around. 

Petyr was guiding her backwards to the bed, arranging her across the sheets, unbuttoning her blouse. As he trailed kisses down her collarbone and across the tops of her breasts, Sansa turned her head to gaze out the window. She caught sight of a little robin in the branches of the cedar, with early spring snowflakes melting on its feathers. She wished that she could warg, like in Old Nan’s tales of ancient Starks and their direwolves, then she wouldn’t feel Petyr’s fingertips trailing between her shoulder blades, in search of the clasp to her bra. She could fly away. 

Sansa almost felt herself twitching her wings, felt her consciousness nudge the edge of the bird’s mind, when the bang of a solid door brought her back down to the bed. 

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Littlefinger,” a razor-sharp accent announced from the door. Petyr sprang from the bed like a startled cat, staring at Jaime Lannister’s smirk in the doorway. “Only you could turn an inhospitable frozen outpost into some sort of sex hotel. Are those satin sheets?” He reached forward to stroke a hand across the bed. “Unbelievable.” 

Sansa wondered if she’d ever seen Petyr look shocked by anything before. With his familiar swagger, Jaime moved to the bed and held out his hand. “Get up, please, Mrs Baratheon. I call certainly believe that Stannis isn’t giving you what you need, but bedding a Nazi spy -” Jaime shook his head and laughed low - “even I feel a little bit sorry for him.” 

She began to push herself up from the bed, but Jaime took her hand in a strong grip and pulled her to her feet. She immediately buttoned her blouse, her face red, as though she’d had anything to do with it being removed in the first place. 

“You can’t expect her to remain faithful to that sexless machine. Stannis Baratheon wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she licked his cock,” Petyr snarked when he found his voice. Sansa saw him zipping up his trousers, and she shuddered. 

Jaime waved his fake hand around dramatically to dismiss the problem. “Herr Baelish, a lady is present! I’m apologise for the language, Mrs Baratheon. Furthermore, you will not be required to lick Littlefinger’s cock by way of comparison.” Jaime flicked on the light switch and threw the room into sordid relief. Sansa leaned against a wall by the door, adjusting her blouse and skirt with shaking hands and shifting her gaze between Jaime and Petyr. 

“Sansa, sweetling...” Petyr crooned, taking her hands in his and stroking his thumbs over her knuckles. 

“Something wrong, Mrs Baratheon?” Jaime grinned. “You look almost ill. Well, I hope you’re not a nervous flyer. My sister is very much looking forward to meeting you, and it’s a long flight to the capitol.” He sounded relaxed and confident in his black uniform and white shirt, a bright red cuff with a black swastika around his right arm. It was similar to the uniform Sandor had been wearing the first night she saw him, but Jaime’s chest was covered in the sort of medals and badges that Stannis wore. He looked taller and more imposing than she remembered, just as flippant and pointlessly charming. 

“General Lannister,” Petyr began, “you know as well as I do that Sansa had nothing to do with Joffrey’s death...” 

“That’s not what Cersei says.” 

“His murder was the work of your brother and Olenna Tyrell...” 

Jaime pushed off from the wall and gripped Sansa’s arm hard, yanking her away from Petyr like a snatched toy. She struggled to keep to her feet without using either man for balance. “That’s not what Tyrion says, either. He’s made his peace with Cersei and has been working tirelessly for the Reich, after he supplied evidence proving that Sansa Stark alone poisoned my nephew. We’ve been working to bring her to trial ever since.” Jaime looked down on her with contempt, then shifted his eyes to Petyr. “You wouldn’t happen to know how she escaped justice in King’s Landing, would you, Littlefinger? No?” He tugged Sansa through the door, not waiting for an answer. 

Sansa tripped after Jaime down the corridor, now lined with Nazi soldiers standing to attention. When their general passed, Sansa saw the eyes of the soldiers darting to her body as she struggled to keep up with Jaime’s pace. Wincing against his grip on her upper arm, she used her free hand to draw a scarf across her chest. Her coat had been left in Mors Umber’s office. She wondered where Sandor was, if Mors had been able to keep him safe. 

“Jaime!” Petyr called, scurrying behind them. “You don’t need to take her south...” 

Jaime stopped short and whipped round, pulling Sansa up against his chest, facing Petyr. He had her arms pinned to her sides and he seemed to be squeezing the air from her lungs as his arm dug into her ribs, his fake hand into her bruised upper arm. “No?” Jaime queried, a false air of curiosity in his voice. “That’s true, I suppose.” He used his left hand to unholster his gun, then jammed the barrel into the underside of Sansa’s chin. She closed her eyes and tried not to breathe. Silently, she counted up and down from ten to calm her racing heart. “I could just kill her right here.” 

Sansa opened her eyes just enough to see Petyr staring back at her, clearly disturbed, for once at a loss for words. 

Jaime pulled the gun away, lazily twirling it round his fingers and dropping it gracefully back at his hip. “But my sister wants to the job herself. And you know that I do try to give Cersei what she wants, when I can.” Jaime gripped her chin and twisted her face to look at him. “Poor Mrs Baratheon. I don’t know what she has planned, but I know that whatever it is, you’ll wish I’d finished you off with a simple shot to the head.” With that, he shoved her hard at Petyr. “Bring them to my plane!” he shouted to his soldiers as he pulled on his coat and walked out the open front door. Petyr helped Sansa regain her footing and tucked her against his body, beneath his winter coat. “I don’t want to keep the Führerin waiting.” 

… 

Through the binoculars, Stannis could see Jaime Lannister striding across the scattered snow patches on the makeshift runway to board his plane, with Baelish and Sansa just behind. Sansa wasn’t wearing a coat, just a thin blouse and a skirt that ended above her knees. He could almost see her shivering. Baelish had his hands on her, running his fingers up and down her arms in a fraudulent attempt to keep her warm, pulling her along towards the plane. Baelish hadn’t taken off his own coat, though, to offer it to her. Stannis nearly reached for a sniper rifle, but even with his steady nerves and good sight, the plane was well out of range. 

“Any sign of Clegane?” Gendry asked behind him. 

“None,” Stannis replied, not taking his eyes off Sansa. Her cry of shocked pain carried across the field to him as Jaime manhandled her into the plane; she fell briefly, catching herself with her hands. He realized that he was snarling when he felt Gendry’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Steady, Field Marshal. We will get her back.” 

Stannis had no idea if Baelish had raped her or not; with her long hair whipping in the wind, he couldn’t make out her face or expression. The fact that she had lost her jumper and coat did not bode well, though, and Stannis could feel tears burning just behind his anger. Not again. Hadn’t she been through enough, with Joffrey, with Ramsey? Bran had said that in his vision, she’d been in pain. Fuck. Had she bled? He tried to close down that line of thinking, but the moment he got his hands on Littlefinger, the very moment, he would extract revenge for every tear, every drop of blood, every moment of fear. 

“Field Marshal, the plane is taking off...” 

“I can see that, Gendry, quite clearly.” He wanted to watch until the plane had flown out of his visual range, wanted any connection to his wife that he could have. “Signal Edd’s forces on the east flank. We move in together on my mark.” Gendry made the radio call to Edd, while Stannis took his place in the armoured vehicle at the head of the attack. 

It wasn’t much of a fight. Baelish only had access to the Vale’s soldiers, and even though he’d turned cloak, few in the rank and file wanted to fight for the Nazis. With Baelish on a plane south, most of the Vale’s soldiers simply laid down their guns when Stannis and Edd retook Last Hearth. Major Royce was still in the Eyrie with the bulk of their forces, bound by treaty and obligation to Stannis and the Westerosi Republic. Edd took stock of the Vale’s fighters and led them south towards The Dreadfort with the Westersosi troops, while Stannis handed the dozen or so Nazi holdouts to Mors Umber for trial and sentencing. 

In Umber’s office in the town hall, Stannis picked up Sansa’s dove grey coat from the chair where she’d abandoned it on arrival. For several minutes, after Mors had marched the Nazi soldiers to the cells at the back of the building, Stannis looked around the room for any other signs of his wife. He searched through the pockets of the coat for any hint of her, finding a half-eaten scone wrapped in waxed paper. The collar still smelled of her. There is nothing else here; his wife is on a plane, probably frightened out of her mind, being taken into the deepest of Lannister territory. 

With the coat secured under one arm, Stannis marched down to the cells. He met Umber in the corridor, who assured him that all the men, including Harry Hardyng, were under lock and key. 

“And Clegane?” Stannis asked, jaw tight. 

“Still in the cells, as you requested. Would you like me to let him out?” 

Stannis shook his head, instead taking the keys off Umber and continuing to the cells. He stopped short just shy of the doorway; hidden in the shadows, he could see that wily old Mors Umber had locked Hardying into the cell next to Clegane, separated by maybe 10 steel bars. The Hound sat perfectly still on a hard bench, facing Hardying, but unmoving, listening with an impassive face to every word that left Hardying’s foolish mouth. 

“...fucked her. You’ve got to think that a pornographer like Baelish must thought up a dozen ways to fuck her. What do you suppose he did first?” Hardying mused, grinning at The Hound. “From behind, like a dog, got her to spread those long Stark legs and howl like a bitch in heat? Damn, that must have been a sight. Sansa Stark’s expensive cunt getting pounded by Littlefinger.” 

The noise in Stannis’ head drowned out most of Hardying’s taunts, and he only picked up a few obscene words as the man carried on. Stannis flicked open the holster holding his pistol in place and stepped slightly forward. He only stopped talking when Clegane abruptly stood up. 

“Ya wanna repeat all of that for her husband, you stupid, dickless piece of shit?” Clegane asked calmly. 

Hardying scoffed, but his eyes widened as Clegane inclined his head towards Hardying’s cell door. Stannis laid Sansa’s coat down on a chair in the hallways, then unlocked the door and was through before Harry could completely turn around. He slammed into Hardying with the force of a tank, cracking his body onto the bars that backed onto Clegane‘s cell. Clegane sat back down on his bench to watch. Stannis let all the built-up rage and guilt out on Hardying, his fists slamming into the man’s face again and again, until little was left of the pretty man that Stannis remembered from the party in White Harbour. Hardying’s chest still rose and fell, though Stannis could no longer really make out his nose or mouth properly through the blood. Stannis pushed himself to standing, kicked Hardying’s legs apart, and finally pulled out his gun. One accurate shot at Hardyng’s crotch and the man was convulsing on the floor of the cell. 

Stannis turned his back on the mess and fished Umber’s keys out of a pocket. He unlocked Clegane’s cell and threw the keys at the ground in disgust. Clegane waited, not following immediately, and Stannis ignored him, walking instead to the three other cells that held the Vale’s Nazi traitors. He emptied his pistol into their heads, dropping one after another; the screaming of those waiting to die only making him shoot faster. 

He put away his gun after the last body fell to find Clegane standing behind him. “Your Grace. No more of these fucking trials, eh? Just as well.” 

“Don’t test me, Clegane. I’ve wanted to put a bullet through your skull ever since I found out that you – who swore to protect her – led her away from the safety of Winterfell. Led her here, where Baelish pushed her down on a bed and fucked her against her will.” 

Clegane flinched at the words. “Aye. I followed her orders, not yours. You gonna kill me for it? Get on with it, then.” 

Stannis was quietly loading his weapon. “Jaime Lannister showed up. He’s taken Sansa and Baelish south with him. So after she was raped, she had Lannister shoving her around, forcing her into the plane by pushing her into the stairs until she fell on the Tarmac.” 

Clegane sucked in a breath, then faced Stannis. “He pushed her hard? And are your sure Baelish had time to...” 

“I’m not sure, and I’m still planning making plans for what I’ll do to Baelish. But Lannister was rough with her, and the minute I get my hands on him, he will pay, as well.” He pick up Sansa’s coat and turned back to Clegane. “We have a plane to catch. Let’s go.” 

“Fuck,” Clegane didn’t move to follow. He looked at his feet, then the wall, anywhere but Stannis. “I do not want to fucking tell you this while I’m the only thing in killing distance.” 

“Tell me what?” Stannis clicked the gun back into its holster. However angry he was, he would not kill Sansa’s friend, a man she had trusted with her life. 

“Sansa. She’s - you really need to calm the fuck down, Your Grace. We need to get on that plane and find her - now.” 

“She’s what? What were you going to say?” 

Clegane let it out in a rush. “Sansa’s pregnant.” 

… 

The plane dipped and swooped and Sansa tried her best not to panic. She was shivering, and hungry, and thirsty. Jaime Lannister, the golden knight, had pushed her to the ground outside the plane, and she’d cut her hands on the rocks of the muddy runway. Her blouse was streaked with blood from her wiping her palms across it, trying to lift the tiny pebbles from the wounds. She knew better than to ask for a blanket, or a flask of water. Lannister was looking at her with utter contempt. 

She needed to stay calm. She wished she had her coat - not just for warmth, but so that she could eat that last bit of the Skagosi scone and think of Sandor, his kind insistence that she eat for the baby. She tried her best not to think of Stannis, of how she’d betrayed him, letting Petyr touch her, kiss her. 

Instead, she pressed her nose to the small window she was huddled near. It was fascinating, flying. She could see the countryside rushing away beneath her, the pattern of fields and woods and rivers. The further south they flew, the greener and more lush the landscape became, all signs of winter gone. Soon, she’d see the Red Keep overlooking Blackwater Bay. She wondered if she’d recognise it from up here. Would Cersei be looking up from her bedroom window, waiting for the plane to land? Waiting to take out all her revenge on Sansa? 

“Landing in 10, General Lannister,” the pilot called out. Sansa kept her eyes open. Flying had messed with her sense of direction; she could see an old castle out the window, but it looked nothing like the Red Keep, and it seemed like Blackwater Bay had changed position. King’s Landing itself looked much smaller, with modern houses and apartment blocks. 

Petyr reached out to take hold of her hands. Sansa pulled them away; his touch hurt the cuts, and more importantly it disgusted her. She kept looking out the window as the ground rushed closer; he kept his eyes on her. 

Soon enough, a soldier from the castle’s guard, dressed in a black uniform with the red band and black swastika, opened the plane door and saluted Jaime. “General Lannister, sir!” the soldier greeted him, and then another man in Nazi uniform jumped into the plane. 

“General, you’re welcome back,” and Sansa realised that she knew this soldier. Bronn: Tyrion’s sellsword. 

“Cpt Blackwater, please escort Mrs Baratheon from the plane,” Jaime ordered dispassionately. 

“Mrs Baratheon, huh? You’ve been busy,” Bronn gave her the same lazy smile, and held out his hand for her. Then he frowned. “You must be frozen.” He shrugged off the jacket of his uniform and put it round her shoulders. Now she, too, looked like a Nazi. She preferred the cold. 

Petyr leapt down behind her and she took in his look of shock for the second time that day. “General... this isn’t King’s Landing. I don’t understand.” 

Then Sansa caught sight of him. An odd, familiar, gait. An unreasonably self-confident, self-satisfied smile, but one genuinely happy to see her. 

“Sansa!” Tyrion called out. “How good to see you again, wife. Welcome to Lannisport.” 

“We’re at Casterly Rock?” Petyr spluttered in a fury. “And wife? You’re two husbands too late, Lannister.” 

Tyrion laughed at him. “What does it matter to you, Baelish? Did you think she’d choose you as number four?” He turned to Sansa, gesturing for her to lean down, then kissed her once on each cheek in greeting. “You look... hurt. Jaime. What the hell has happened? She’s frozen and covered in blood.” 

“You wanted her back, Tyrion. I brought her back,” he snapped at his brother. “I went behind Cersei’s back and brought her here. That one” - he gestured to Petyr - “was about to get his cock out when I found them, so I think some thanks are in order. I just gave up a significant number of troops to Stannis Baratheon’s forces. He was waiting like a spurned lover outside Last Hearth. He'll have swept away that pathetic and unauthorised attack of Baelish’s by now, all the way down to the Dreadfort.” 

Stannis had been at Last Hearth? Sansa felt all the longing she’d been supressing bubbling up within her. 

She looked towards the castle behind Tyrion. In place of the Lannister lion, enormous red banners bearing the swastika hung from every rampart. Hundreds of soldiers, all in Nazi black, stood to attention in ordered ranks. 

Tyrion took his brother’s hand and nodded. “Thank you, Jaime. Thank you for this. But will you stay? You can make that choice, brother.” 

Jaime gave Tyrion a sad smile, and she could see a flash of the conflicted, thoughtful man that she remembered. “I won’t betray Cersei, Tyrion. This was one favour, one and only. I’m headed back to Riverrun, to hold the West against Baratheon.” He shifted his gaze to Sansa. “She killed my... nephew... and still I’ve brought her here. I will do nothing else for you.” 

“Jaime, she did not....” 

“Enough, Tyrion. Even I won’t argue with Cersei on this. You have your prize.” He tapped the side of the plane to alert the pilot. “Goodbye, brother.” 

“Goodbye, Jaime,” Tyrion answered, sadly. 

Tyrion held Sansa’s hand gently, and she waited in silence, holding in all of her questions as Jaime’s plane took off. Once it had disappeared into the distance, he let out a sigh. 

“Stop moping like a girl, sir,” Bronn admonished. “Now, can we take those damn things down? They’re giving me the creeps.” 

Tyrion grinned at his friend. “Yeah, me too.” He called across the enormous staging ground in front of the castle: “Tear down those damn banners!” 

Sansa looked up, startled, as the Nazi banners were pulled hastily from the walls. Her eyes swept across the ranks of black-booted soldiers. Quite a few looked strangely familiar. And then, her eyes halted on one soldier at the front, shifting uncomfortably in his black uniform, tugging off his swastika and walking confidently towards her. She squealed like a child and started running, hearing Tyrion’s laughter in the background. She ran and ran, crying and laughing at the same time, until she was once again in Jon’s arms.


End file.
